Sacrifice
by DirtyFox2
Summary: Members of Alliance Special Operations team Delta are rescued by Commander Shepard in the Exodus cluster and head to Earth to contribute to the fight against the Reapers there under the command of Admiral Anderson. Familiar faces join the fight as well on Earth before Shepard's return. Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**ONE**

_What does it mean to sacrifice? I wondered that often enough on lonely nights after I'd had too much to drink. Hell, I'd even punched it into an extranet search engine thinking I'd find my answer there. People always had their own definitions outside of what the dictionary taught us, but none of those options ever fulfilled me. Why did young men and women fling themselves into harm's way and risk it all for some abstract thought or idea? I felt like I could sacrifice, but then I never understood the full meaning of it and found myself searching endlessly for an answer that would sate my curiosity. At the time I had no idea how prescient those nights were, or how familiar I'd become with sacrifice. _

"We shouldn't have too much trouble once we're planetside," his voice spoke with that authoritative tone we had come to expect from the officers, new to the fleet or otherwise. "I don't expect the slavers to have much in the way of security outside of their storage facility; the exterior atmosphere on Loki lends itself well to our mission. Nobody is going to be hanging around outside looking for trespassers."

Maybe he was right. Loki was unremarkable. It was a small terrestrial world located in the backwater Asgard system in the Exodus cluster. Of the two continents that existed upon its surface one was almost totally covered in ice and the other was mainly covered by basaltic highlands. None of it lent itself to a picturesque location for colonizing. But what was surprising about that? None of our operations took us to garden worlds that we would actually _enjoy_ operating on. That wasn't what we did. We operated outside of Alliance space doing the dirty work. And now we were about to insert into a hostile AO on Loki's northern continent in order to do a hard hit on a Batarian slaver's hideout. Not because they were slavers, but because they had struck an Alliance merchant ship. They hadn't taken any survivors. We had already found the wrecked hulk and counted the dead. We matched the body count to the passenger manifest. Identifying them… that was a whole different ballgame. It hadn't been difficult to track them to Loki; it was one of the few places in the system they could use to get out and stretch their legs.

The plan was simple enough; the Batarians had taken over an old mining facility's berthing areas and used them as a stopover. They'd land on Loki, discharge their mass effect drives and if they'd been on a long journey they'd stay a day or two in their old hideout. We were currently observing the areas via a recon probe we'd sent down to the surface. They'd been on the surface for a day and a half now and showed no signs of moving. Our Lieutenant wanted to hit them now and hit them hard.

So now we were going to drop in with a small team and assault their position, kill the Batarians and liberate anyone on hand. "I want clean kills, gents," the Lieutenant exclaimed. "Keep the spraying to a minimum and know what lies beyond your target. I don't want us hitting any civvies."

"I thought there were no survivors from the attack on the MSV Leonardo," one of my teammates asked.

"There weren't, but these guys were raiding merchant ships for weeks in the Terminus systems so they're bound to be carrying a load of people," Lieutenant Gammon responded.

"Not really our concern, sir," Gunnery Chief Tarkov said resolutely. He was a gruff, hard as steel Alliance Marine with sandy blonde hair and icy blue eyes. He was the only one among us that held the coveted N7 title. Most of us thought of ourselves as pretty salty, but Tarkov was salty enough to brush it off his shoulders. Gunny was the most senior man among our team and acted as the Lieutenant's tactical advisor in situations like these. The Gunny never shied away from a fight, but he'd seen enough in his day to avoid them when possible.

"Excuse me, Gunny?" Lieutenant Gammon asked, taken aback. Gammon was a fresh-faced new join just graduating with an N5 designation out of ICT. N5 was nothing to bat an eyelash at back in the grunts, but he was a butter bar with no experience and he thought that shiny designation was enough to earn our respect. Sorry, buddy, but most of us were N6s with a shit ton of combat experience. Gammon kept his hair tightly cropped just like the Marines in the posters; he had a baby-face and trusting brown eyes. He didn't like the Gunny's tone.

"They're not Alliance—so they're not our concern," Tarkov reiterated. It was harsh, but true.

"There could be humans down there, Gunny," Gammon reminded him.

"Not Alliance citizens," Gunny said again.

"Our responsibility is to every human being in the galaxy, Gunny," Gammon said with alacrity.

"These guys fled Alliance space to be 'free from the oppression of our government' and now that they've been snatched up by some undesirables it's not our responsibility to see them to safety," Gunny argued evenly. He was serious about this, but his tone remained plain and he was tactful toward the junior officer.

"Don't be so jaded, Gunny," Gammon began. He looked around the room to see that the majority of us felt the same way as Tarkov did. It was clear upon all our faces "You can't all be this uncaring can you? Gents, we're talking about saving lives here."

"Do enough of these missions, sir, and you'll see," I spoke up. "These people from the Terminus don't give a shit about us. They treat us like garbage until they are in some trouble. Even then they're quick to forget what we did for them."

"We don't do our duty for slaps on the back and free drinks, Sergeant Wiley," the Lieutenant boasted proudly. "The plan doesn't change; Shinokawa and Dyson will set up over-watch and take out any sentries posted outside if they have them. The assault team will be made up of me, Gunny, Wiley, MacMillan, Singh, and Gonzalez. Wiley, make sure you've got a charge for breaching."

_What would you know about duty_? I thought. "Roger that, sir," I said aloud.

"Good. Pre-combat checks and inspections in fifteen minutes down on the hangar deck, Captain Desmond says he'll keep the Iwo off station while Lieutenant Krupkova takes us planetside in the Kodiak." He turned and left the room with little ceremony. It was evident by his walk that he was excited for the chance to drop in on some hostiles. The new guys were always anxious for a fight.

"Man, fuck that. We're going to go risk our dicks for some Terminus tramps?" Gonzalez complained. Despite her comment she did not have a dick, but it never stopped her from talking like one of the boys. We called her Gonzo. She was short, but made up for it with a nasty attitude and a relentless drive that often put her in harm's way during an operation. Whatever her reservations were now, on the deck she'd be fully committed. She kept her black hair short, too short to even pull back into a ponytail. The front was awash with wild bangs that sometimes fell in front of her green eyes. Those eyes were deceptively alluring, if she wanted to seem like the sexy Citadel dancer type she could, but she'd only do it long enough to get something she wanted from you.

"Lock it up, Gonzo," this was from Gunny Tarkov. "If the L-T says we go, then we go."

Down on the hangar deck everyone hung around waiting for the Lieutenant. Gunny Tarkov had checked over our gear, in reality that wasn't necessary. We were seasoned veterans, we didn't need to be inspected, but the new Lieutenant insisted on it. He'd always say "Brilliance in the basic, gents". Whatever.

Most of us wore an assortment of different gear. I was partial to Hahne-Kedar's chest plate and the accompanying armor pieces. It was easy to tailor to whatever the mission profile required and had plenty of space for spare equipment and thermal clips. I most often opted for a recon hood because it was comfortable and increased my overall situational awareness with its advanced sensor suite and impressive auto-targeting software. An M-96 mattock assault rifle sat snugly in its compact mode on my right shoulder and an M5 Phalanx heavy pistol sat idly on my hip. I checked and re-checked my ordnance; three fragmentation grenades and two breaching kits. I was ready to roll.

Shinokawa and Dyson were standing nearest to me checking one another over as they so often did. They seemed almost like a couple. Shinokawa's diminutive frame seemed almost child-like next to her much taller partner, Dyson. As our two snipers they were always carrying precision firearms. Shinokawa opted for the M-29 Incisor while Dyson hefted the heavy-duty M-98 Widow. He preferred the original design over the new Alliance variant because he claimed to enjoy the superior stopping power. Both of them usually wore specialized headgear to increase their efficiency at targeting. Shinokawa had a Kuwashi visor and Dyson wore the demonic looking Delumcore overlay with its eerie, glowing red eyes. But because this operation was going to be EVA they'd both be equipped with standard breather helmets. Both of them wore Armax Arsenal armor for the increased storage space for thermal clips and before every operation they did their best to meticulously alter the camouflage pattern on the armor to best match the background flora of the area they'd be operating in. Their diligence with such details was mind-numbing to me, but they always said being invisible was their strongest weapon. I found it hard to believe now as I stood glaring at the bulky M-98 Dyson clutched in his gloved hands.

After a few more minutes the Lieutenant arrived; clad in his Rosenkov Materials armor and standard breather helmet. "All right, load up boys and girls," Gunny Tarkov ordered in his heavily accented voice. He was born on Earth like me and grew up in St. Petersburg. He often cursed in Russian, or at least I think he was cursing. He wore the same H-K armor as I did, but always wore a death mask. He enjoyed its sinister, emotionless appearance. The thing lacked almost any human features making him seem almost synthetic in nature.

Lieutenant Krupkova was already in the Kodiak's cockpit. I glanced at the sleek exterior, painted in the traditional white and blue of the Systems Alliance. I had made dozens of drops in the combat cockroach and it had served me well. But I never enjoyed getting inside. Once I was encased in it my hands were tied and I would live or die based on someone else's skills. It made me cringe. I shook it off and piled into the UT-47 behind my comrades. I heard the door's mechanical clamor as it eased shut and the gentle hiss as the cabin was pressurized. _Just another drop_, I thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

With every step I took I could feel every clump of snow and shard of ice give way under the pressure of my boots. We advanced quietly; Shinokawa and Dyson had pushed out far ahead of us to scope our route in. I was walking point now; the rest of the team was spread out behind me.

Loki was as uninteresting as photos from the recon probe had indicated. The surface was made up of barren ice fields that stretched on into the curving horizon. The flatness of it all was occasionally interrupted by gentle snow banks that gale-force winds had created over the years. I knew enough about alien topography to know that any of these drifts that existed now would only be temporary features. The same winds that made them would blow them away in time.

I advanced at a steady pace, guided by nav-point markers that Shinokawa transmitted to me. They moved fast, they were hundreds of meters ahead of us and getting closer to the target site. Lieutenant Krupkova dropped us about two kilometers away from our objective. We'd learned from previous operations that dropping right onto the objective, or dropping on the X as we called it, could be dangerous. That lesson had come the hard way when Krupkova narrowly escaped being shot down when we dropped in on some Eclipse mercenaries operating in the Caleston Rift.

"Delta Two Sierra, on site," Dyson's voice crackled into my earpiece. "Two hostiles located outside the target's entrance." They had undoubtedly found themselves a suitable hide sight and were now preparing to eliminate the batarians standing sentinel outside.

"Standby," Lieutenant Gammon ordered over the team's internal frequency. "I don't want any shots giving us away before we are ready to make entry."

_Maybe this guy isn't so bad after all_. I picked up the pace, as anxious to get to the target site as I was to get out of the chilly weather. Our suits moderated temperature, but on frigid worlds like Loki I could feel the biting cold trying to force its way into my suit. My fellow Marines told me I was crazy, but I'd have thought that was fairly obvious. We all were. Who else volunteers to tramp around frozen worlds way outside Alliance space looking for bad guys to stomp?

As we made our way to the entrance I could see the two batarians standing vigil over the front entrance. They were talking to one another, clearly not enjoying their assigned task. We crept forward slowly and quietly, using a nearby snow embankment as cover. We readied ourselves for a mad dash up to the front entrance.

Lieutenant Gammon spoke over the team frequency. "Shinokawa, Dyson, take 'em out," he ordered calmly. So far he had impressed me with his professionalism. Our last Lieutenant had been an emotional mess on his first mission and hadn't survived many more than four before he met his maker.

"Copy that," Dyson responded.

A few moments passed and I crept up to the edge of the snow drift, peeking over just enough so that I could get eyes on the two guards. Just as I got settled in place I saw the first round smash into one of the guards, completely bypassing his kinetic barriers and striking him in the throat. His ablative armor gave way to the sheer power of the round being fired—undoubtedly from Dyson's Widow. The second guard was alarmed; he staggered back from his comrade's corpse unsure of what to do. Dyson didn't give him any time to figure it out. Another round struck its target, disabling the batarian's barriers. He struggled to find some cover, but Shinokawa finished him off with several shots from her Incisor.

"Go!" Lt. Gammon called out.

I leapt over the snow bank and sprinted as hard and as fast as I could toward the front entrance. We had no idea if the shots had been heard by the slavers inside. If they had, they would be getting ready for our arrival or moving to counterattack. The goal now was to be fast and aggressive. We had to make entry and take out the enemy before they had a chance to get ready for us.

In my earpiece I could hear the other members of my team huffing as they sprinted behind me. Gonzo, Mac, Gunny, Singh, and the Lieutenant would all be right in line behind me. As we arrived at the building I leapt over the two dead batarians, disregarding the blood splatters all over the snow. Everyone else in the team stacked up behind me.

I tried the door—no go. "It's sealed," I alerted the team.

"Singh!" Gunny Tarkov called out.

Singh dashed forward. The somber glow of his omni-tool in action washed over us all. There were a few beeping sounds as he worked through all the processes to force the locked door open. Finally, the lights on the door turned green and the entrance slid open.

We were met by hostile fire almost immediately. I didn't even have time to try and make entry. Singh rolled out of the way just in time to avoid a lethal burst of gunfire. "Go!" Gunny Tarkov shouted, knowing all too well that hesitation at this crucial moment could cause casualties.

Without being prompted Gonzo lobbed two flash grenades inside. "Flash out!" she cried and I watched them both sail by my head. I readied myself, knowing full well that when they went off I'd be the first one through the door. It was the best and worst part about my job. I was high on adrenaline right now; my body struggled to keep the flood of it in my veins from overtaking me. The actuators and servo motors in my armor would strain with stifling the trembling that the adrenaline caused. I was trained for this. I was experienced enough to operate despite the rush, but it never went away. It was always something you had to fight off. Controlling it could mean the difference between an accurate, deadly headshot and a sheer miss. Or worse, for the inexperienced, tunnel vision could set in and you'd miss a target which could result in the death of a teammate or your own.

I heard the echo of both flash grenades go off; I brought my weapon up and pressed my way into the door. Inside I immediately saw two targets dazed from the bright emissions from the flash grenades. I fired several rounds into one and watched as my incendiary rounds set him on fire. Before I could train my barrel on the second target Gonzo was inside and pumping round after round from her M-27 Scimitar. Her target did not stand up well to the onslaught. His limp, peppered body tumbled backward over the chair he'd been sitting in. Gonzo hastily reloaded her shotgun.

Two batarians entered through a door in the back of the room, immediately opening fire on Gonzo and I. We sprinted for cover, finding a meager amount behind a collection of old storage containers used to ship in food items. Rounds from our attackers danced all around us and I could feel the containers giving way from the impacts of the slugs being fired at us. My heart raced and for some reason I had to stifle laughter. I was a lunatic.

Then the unmistakable sound of a fully-automatic weapon letting loose at a high rate of fire drowned out the menacing staccato of the batarians firearms. MacMillan had made entry now and was throwing an immense barrage of mass accelerated projectiles from his M-76 Revenant machine-gun. I looked up in time to see the batarians dancing through the heavy fire trying to avoid being struck. MacMillan missed _a lot_, but he fired such a high volume that plenty of his rounds found a target.

I fired off a concussive shot, striking my intended target in the chest. He burst into flames and reeled backwards like a ragdoll, crumpling up against the back wall. His partner didn't last much longer. His kinetic barriers became overwhelmed by the Revenant's unrelenting assault and his ablative armor shredded like paper-mache. He collapsed into a pile of his own entrails.

"Clear!" MacMillan called out.

"Clear!" Gonzo echoed.

Lt. Gammon, Gunny, and Singh entered the room behind Mac. "Not exactly the sort of tight shots I was looking for," Lt. Gammon scolded Mac.

He shrugged. "No slaves in here, sir."

"Door here," Gonzo alerted us all. It must have been the same door the slavers used to enter the room before Mac opened fire on them. There didn't appear to be any other entrances. I was battling the adrenaline rush, trying to stave off the tunnel vision that almost always accompanied my high. I felt strong enough to barrel through a wall and crush the batarians with my own hands. That was a foolish thought, but an attractive one.

"Singh, crack these drives and see if you can get any useful intel," Lt. Gammon ordered our tech specialist to work as soon as he noticed several advanced haptic controls nearby. He went to work without hesitation, his omnitool illuminated on his left arm. "Captain Desmond, this is Delta Six, can you read me?" He was talking into the command channel now and I couldn't hear Desmond's response through my own headset.

"We've secured a foothold in the slaver's base. They decided to go the hard way, several enemy KIA. We're going to continue our clear," he explained into his comm-set. There was a moment of silence and I assumed Captain Desmond, commander of the SSV Iwo Jima in orbit, was talking back to him. "Negative, Krupkova is still in position at our LZ. She'll RV with us here once we've completed our sweep of the premises. Delta Six out."

"Let's go, quit dicking around and clear this place," Gunny commanded, indicating Gonzo, Mac and I. He was never very subtle.

We nodded and moved for the hallway where the two slavers had come just moments before. My two teammates stacked behind me and gave me a tap on the shoulder when they were ready to move; just as before I swept into the doorway with my assault rifle up.

Immediately upon entering I could see through my fading peripheral vision rows and rows of small cages. I faintly recognized figures and movement from behind the bars, but my eyes were trained forward down the length of the hallway and I was losing the fight with the surge of hormones that my sympathetic nervous system was pumping into my veins. During training they had always explained this rush as a natural fight or flight response and they had cultivated the fight in us. It was always fight, never flight for me. Training and experience also taught me that Mac and Gonzo would be right on my heels.

"Oh my God," Gonzales said over the team frequency. "This is horrible." Despite her hard exterior Gonzales had a kind heart. She was violent, tremendously so when she had to be. The sights of those contained in the cells near us was undoubtedly effecting her. I paid them no mind. My focus was trained elsewhere.

Suddenly my advance was halted when someone reached out and grasped my arm, trying to hold me firmly in place.

"Please, Goddess, help us," the voice begged. I looked over to see that an asari maiden had grabbed hold of me. Her face was battered and scarred and she looked at me with only one pleading eye. The other had been staunched out by something, leaving a grisly wound on the right side of her face. I was frozen… silent.

"I…" I urged myself to speak, but my mind could find no words. Alarm bells were ringing in my head. I had to get free of her before I was engaged from the danger area down the hall. The look in her remaining eye was an amalgamation of hope and terror and I found it difficult to withdraw my arm. What had they done to her? I had seen many ghastly sights in my time of service, but there was something haunting in the way she gazed at me now. Her stare searched the emotionless, pitiless red eyes of my recon hood desperate for some sort of reassurance. Was she saved? The mask would not answer.

"We have to clear this damn room, Wiley," Mac voiced through his helmet's mechanical tone. "Let's go!"

I shook my arm trying to release the grip she had on me. It was surprisingly strong. "Please…" she begged again.

"Get off of me!" I commanded, too harshly. Again I gave a shake of my arm, this time more strongly. She relinquished her hold and withdrew back into her cell, frightened by my outburst. A sudden pang of guilt struck at my heart, but there was no time for that. I turned back to the continuing corridor and advanced with Mac and Gonzo in tow. At the end of the hall there was another door. Its locking mechanism was illuminated green- unlocked. As we neared it the entrance slid open and with its spread came a gust of fire from the batarian slavers inside. No doubt they knew we had killed their compatriots and understood that they were next. This type of enemy was the worst. They were cornered and knew it.

"Frag 'em!" Gonzo shouted over the din. Tracers raced by the three of us into the cells behind us. I drew a frag grenade from one of the pouches on my H-K chest piece.

I prepped the frag and looked at my partners. "Frag out!" I shouted and lobbed the grenade inside. I heard the muffled sound of an explosion, but the gunfire was still pouring out of the room unabated.

"More," Mac yelled. He popped into the doorway to fire a few bursts from his Revenant, but took such a punishment from incoming fire that his kinetic barriers were overwhelmed in a hurry. He pulled back behind the cover of the wall. "Yeah, way more!"

I drew three frags from other pouches. I handed one to Gonzo and prepared one in my hand. We nodded at one another and tossed the two grenades into the room. I hastily pulled the safety clip and pin on the third and tossed it in as well. Two blasts echoed in succession, followed closely by a third.

The gunfire had stopped. I peeked inside and didn't see any threats. I made entry, my weapon up as usual. Mac followed me in. There were three more dead batarians behind dismal cover. They'd taken shelter behind a leather sofa and a desk—none of which handled the force of the fragmentation grenades. Their bodies and armor were in shambles having been eviscerated by the force of the fragmentation grenades. The room was clear. "We're all clear back here, sir," I radioed to Lieutenant Gammon.

"Roger that. Anything else?" he queried.

"Slaves, sir," I told him.

"How many?" he asked.

"Unknown. We'll check."

We moved back into the hallway we had advanced down to survey the number of slaves these batarians had shackled. The view was grim.

"Well… there _were_ more," Mac said solemnly, shaking his head. Several of the cells nearest the door we had tried to enter now held dead slaves. Among the dead were a quarian, three salarians, three humans and an asari. Two of the humans looked like children. Gonzalez cursed under her breath and looked away in disgust. I knew she had a daughter back on Earth. I said nothing.

"Fucking batarians," Gonzales cursed after surveying the carnage. "How can they keep slaves?"

A few hours ago I hadn't cared about the plight of these people. I knew they were here. It was far too unlikely that a pack of slavers would be at one of their stop-overs without some of their would-be merchandise. I had told myself they were not my concern. After all, most of them were aliens and they had all been captured in the lawless Terminus systems. But now, seeing them here in their dismal state I couldn't help but feel ashamed of myself.

I placed my assault rifle back in its place. I gripped the bars to one of the nearest cells and gazed inside. They were living like animals; four or five to each tiny cell. They had a bucket in the corner for their own waste and another near the cell door for water or slop that they could presumably eat. I looked at each of the victims—their lives now extinguished. None of them wore anything that could be described of as clothes. Most of them wore smocks, or tattered, filthy tunics. I felt immense regret. Had they died because of us? Were we careless in our attempt to clear the final room?

"It's not your fault," a soft, diffident voice told me.

I looked over to see the asari maiden standing beside me. Her own tunic was stained with her dried blood and sweat. She smelled terrible, just like the entire corridor. It was all so overwhelming. She looked as if she could barely stand. Mac and Gonzalez were opening the cells and freeing the slaves from their confines.

"I'm… I'm sorry," I offered weakly. I shook my head not knowing how to offer her comfort or solace. There were nearly a dozen slaves still alive. Perhaps their freedom would be enough?

She shook her head. "It's not your fault," she repeated. Her hollow eye socket, stained with dried blood down the side of her cheek, stared absently at me. But her remaining eye was locked on that inhumane façade I still wore. I removed the recon hood and let out a sigh. I looked up her with as much pity as I could muster. But is that what she desired? She looked into the eyes of a killer. Everything about her told me she was innocent and she could be just as contaminated by my presence as she could by those savage batarians.

"We need to get you some medical attention," I told her, trying to avert her gaze. But before we could do anything she collapsed and I barely managed to catch her.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

Ass chewings were nothing I wasn't familiar with. You come up the Alliance Marines and they become a part of everyday life. You stay long enough and you can pretty much shrug off anything someone might be spitting at you. Tarkov, however, had a knack for driving his point home. Now, as he blasted us with his throaty, accented shout, I couldn't help but feel like an idiot. He had found another door in the back room shrouded by furniture that kept us from seeing it. We had been too caught up with the deaths of the slaves to notice. We were boots, rookies that didn't rate the Delta title. "Nevermind. You'll pay later," he threatened in his usual manner.

It was that sort of cryptic threat that kept you on your toes. Tarkov was nefarious with his punishments and often brutal; something about being Russian or a psychopath? None of us relished the idea.

The door led to an airlock, which led to a great, cavernous hangar that was fortunately void of anymore hostiles. We housed the freed slaves in the airlock now; each of them cuddled up against one another for warmth or maybe it was protection. It was that sort of pathetic sight that troubled me. I never liked seeing someone reduced to such a doleful creature. Slavery broke a person in mind, body and spirit. There wasn't a soul before me now that wasn't thoroughly defeated.

They were a feeble assortment of humans, asari, salarians, a peculiar krogan, and even a pair of batarians. I asked why they had been forced into bondage and they explained that if you cross the wrong people it didn't matter what species you were. Together they numbered no more than fourteen.

The asari from before sat huddled in a corner alone trying desperately to fight off the immense cold drafts that permeated the entire underground structure. She seemed to avoid physical contact with the others as if they were lepers. She shivered from the biting air, but we made no overtures to assist. I wasn't a caregiver, or a hospital worker.

I walked onto the catwalk that overlooked the sonorous hangar and rested my elbows on the handrail. Krupkova had been ordered to our position and it wouldn't take her long to arrive. I could already feel the warm, velvety sensation from a bottle of the good stuff. With any luck I still had a few fingers left in my last bottle of scotch. I loved the stuff, especially the old Earth brands. No better way to decompress after an op.

"Hell of a mission," MacMillan suddenly appeared beside me. He was taller than me by a head and a half with broad shoulders and a stupid, shit-eating grin than earned him nothing but scorn from Tarkov. "Didn't expect such… conditions."

"What did you expect?" I asked with a snort.

"Shit, I don't know man. This is my first run in with slavers. I mean, I've smoked a few here and there on boarding operations and we freed some people off their ships. But that was always so much more sterile," he explained, scratching the back of his head. He let out a sigh and mimicked me by leaning on the railing.

"Yeah well who wants a bunch of germs floating around aboard a ship where the oxygen is recycled?" I asked rhetorically. I drew a pack of cigarettes from a small pouch on my chest. I'd taken them off one of the slavers. I had run out of smokes a long time ago and I had been dying for one for weeks. I guess shitty batarian tobacco would have to do. I had to rummage around in the pack before I could find a suitable cig that hadn't been cracked or broken. I found a suitable choice, lit it and savored the cheap, crappy taste.

"I suppose you're right," Mac allowed. He grimaced and waved away the ribbons of smoke rising from the cig.

"Of course. I'm always right, mate," I declared with a smile and a wink.

I grudgingly extinguished my smoke when I was informed Krupkova was on final approach. Time to mask up again. I watched languidly as the hulking steel doors over the hangar raised pitifully slow to allow Krupkova and her UT-47A Kodiak to land.

At long last the transport set down with an audible _vroom_ as its mass effect fields stabilized. Much later, the doors of the hangar finally closed and atmosphere returned.

Like a herd of baby calves the former slaves were shepherded past me by some of my teammates. Dyson's face was awash with a triumphant gleam; as if this sort of thing was the pinnacle of what we did. Meanwhile, Gonzales, had a small child bundled up in her arms like a baby koala. She reveled in, speaking gibberish to the little creature. I shook my head, discontent with the gooey affections of my squad.

The refugees piled into the Kodiak, some of them murmuring their thanks and well-wishes to the Marines who saw them off. Still, there was an almost imperceptible hint of blame riven into the faces of the humans. It was typical of the Terminus types, I hated them for being so desperate to escape the Alliance's reach but so quick to demand aid. Us rescuing them was simply an after-thought, an expectation and the disgust so readily apparent to me was a reaction as if to say _what took you so long_?

Once the shuttle door was sealed Krupkova piloted her way out of the hangar out of atmo with little ceremony. We may as well have been transporting livestock. No doubt Captain Desmond would have every available amenity waiting for these victims. That bothered me. I'd get back to a sterile, black and white after action review. It would be scathing for the mistakes that we made. Then I'd head to the showers for a dismal five minute 'Navy' shower because the Alliance squids always claimed there wasn't enough water aboard the Iwo and that we had to ration it. That never stopped them from enjoying lengthy, steaming hot showers, though. And I'm sure these refugees would get the same. Life sucks when you're a grunt.

"What?" Mac asked, looking over at me. He must have heard me grumble.

"Nothing."

I glanced over at the remaining shipment. The one-eyed asari was still here, but seemed utterly disinterested in what was happening. She was too concerned with staving off the cold. Then there was a thin, grubby older man that had that same sniveling air about him as the other Terminus humans. Lastly was the krogan who appeared completely un-krogan to my eyes. To a casual onlooker he seemed every bit a lizard-man as the rest, but more careful scrutiny led to something… odd. I couldn't tell exactly what that was.

"Mac, does that lizard look any different than normal to you?" I asked MacMillan. He turned to glance at the krogan.

"What's a normal one look like? It's been a while since I've run into one," he replied errantly.

"Yeah me too. I don't know, he just looks… weird?"

"He's an alien, dude," Mac stated shaking his head. "I'll never get used to looking at some of them."

My thoughts on the krogan were sidelined when Gunny Tarkov announced that Lieutenant Krupkova was on her final approach back to the hangar. I was anxious to leave and be done with the operation. I needed normalcy. Dealing with civvies like this could be confusing.

We broke free of Loki's thin atmosphere and climbed high into the swirling clouds of frozen sulphur trioxides and dioxides that coalesced off-world on the side facing the G-type main sequence star Asgard. The Iwo Jima would be a few thousand kilometers off in a holding pattern waiting for us.

The crew compartment felt cramped and hot. I was already getting irritated by the short trip and decided to take my mind off of the situation by staring at the krogan again. Despite wearing a significant amount of musculature he appeared shorter in stature than your average krogan; likewise the scaled plates upon his head didn't have their characteristic rigid form. He looked like a giant baby alligator with bashful blue eyes instead of some fearsome beast whose race was responsible for devastating the rachni.

"Lieutenant Gammon," Krupkova's voice broke my line of thought as she spoke over her shoulder from the cockpit. "Captain Desmond has a priority message."

"Send it," Gammon stated sounding very Captainly, stepping into the cockpit. The vid-screen appeared beside Krupkova's console displaying Desmond's wizened old face.

"Lieutenant, good work on Loki. All the refugees are aboard except the two you've got on hand, but I have some terribly troubling news," the Captain began, his voice saturated with a graveness wholly unlike his normal jovial disposition. Ears perked up and we strained to hear what he had to say. "It appears Earth is… under attack."

Only the steady hum of the mass effect drive and the Kodiak's propulsion systems could be heard. No one spoke. Yet none of us could have believed such a thing was even plausible. "What do you mean, sir?" Gammon asked, perplexed. I shared his confusion.

"Details are sketchy right now, but all reports indicate that whatever is taking place is big and is very, very bad. We've lost communications with Arcturus as well as the Second Fleet. Before that, however, Admiral Hackett sent out a priority transmission that alluded to the scale of what was happening, but all transmissions ceased before we could mete out exactly what is going on," Desmond seemed fatigued. Whatever was happening in Iwo's CIC was weighing heavily upon him. He wiped the sweat from his brow with an ancient handkerchief.

One of his CIC staffers broke Desmond's attention on the comm-link as he alerted him to something he had detected. The old warhorse wheeled around from the vid screen to address the young officer. One of his subordinates exclaimed there was a possible hostile contact being detected by long range sensors. "Where away?" Desmond asked calmly. He was a capable officer; an old hand at this sort of thing. He'd fought at the Citadel and was a veteran of the First Contact War.

"Unknown… standby… two contacts have appeared from the dark side of Loki. They're batarian!" the officer explained exuberantly.

"Is it the slavers' ships?" Captain Desmond asked attentively, he wanted amplifying information so he could formulate a plan of action. "Mr. Sadat get me a firing solution on the first ship!"

"Check that, sir… targets are not batarian… I… I can't identify them," one of the crew muttered with alarm.

"Excuse me?" the Captain reeled on his LADAR operator.

"I've never seen anything like these," the junior officer tried to explain, dumbfounded.

The Captain made his way over to the LADAR console. The active scans would create a rough image of whatever it was that had been detected. Advanced VIs could then take the data and match it to known vessel types with a certain degree of accuracy. Now, however, the image was wholly unfamiliar to the VI software and completely unknown to its operator. "I have… at the Citadel." Captain Desmond's tone was grave and for several seconds he did not speak. He reappeared on the video screen to address a confused Lieutenant Gammon. "Listen to me, Lieutenant, you're not going to like this. We have to escape the system and we have to do it now. You're too far out for retrieval and with any luck these things haven't spotted your transport yet. Return to Loki and activate your distress beacon."

"But sir, you're leaving us? We don't have the necessary supplies to stay alive planetside. We're not far out if you can just wait a little—" his argument was cut off by a Captain that was sounding increasingly despondent .

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. If these ships are what I think they are then we don't stand a chance. Our best hope of survival is escape. Even then I'm unsure if…" he trailed off for a moment. He shook his head and decided not to finish that thought. "Do what you can on the ground, Lieutenant. Godspeed."

"What the hell is going on?" Gonzales asked no one in particular.

"Sir, the Iwo Jima is turning away from us. I think they're going to attempt to make a run out of the system," Krupkova announced with surprise. "They're going to run for the mass relay!" They'd have to escape the Asgard system and make their way to Utopia if they hoped to get to the relay.

"Listen to me, Lieutenant Lacroix, make way with all possible haste. You've got to run, do you understand me? Run!" We could still hear the Captain bellowing over the comm-link. He had forgotten to shut it down.

"Incoming fire. Immense damage to our ablative armor! Whatever that was it just punched right through our kinetic barriers!" a panicked voice could be heard. We waited with bated breath for what seemed like an eternity in that cramped crew compartment.

"Sir, propulsion is down. We're dead in the water," another voice stated.

"God help us," Captain Desmond sounded resigned to his fate.

The view from the console was racked by explosions. Bodies were flung to and fro in the chaos of what was transpiring on the CIC. I could hear the desperate cries from the CIC staff and wondered what was happening. And just like that they were all dead. That was the terrifying reality of combat in space. There were safeguards and escape pods, but during battle they were always an afterthought. The Iwo Jima was destroyed so quickly that it seemed impossible for anyone to have survived.

"Sir… the Iwo… she's gone," Krupkova reported with quiet trepidation.

"Get us back in atmo; we'll hunker down in that hangar and hope for the best," Gammon was trying to sound confident and in control, but it was evident he was out of depth here. We could only pray that the active masking on the UT-47A would be enough to prevent detection.

"Copy," Krupkova rogered-up sullenly.

Silence hung like a specter in the crew cabin, the bulk of our armor made it cramped and uncomfortable. No one said a word for fear of bringing truth to what was taking place. _We were fucked_.

An alarm bell chirped in the cockpit. "Enemy ships dispatching contacts—too small to tell what they are. Probably fighters," some of the fire returned to Krupkova's voice then, perhaps the shock of her immense loss was shelved in favor of survival. I had certainly hoped so.

"One of the contacts has a bead on us," she reported, trying to sound serene for our sake. I wish she hadn't sad a damn thing. This was her realm, not ours. We couldn't do a damn thing to protect ourselves in the back of this heap. It was either going to be the savior that delivered us to safety or an overpriced coffin.

"Lose him," Gammon urged unnecessarily.

"Roger that." And just like that she was her old self again; too consumed now with escaping this new threat. Mourning could wait, remembering the dead would come later. Now she had to ensure we didn't join them.

Our nose dipped considerably and the Kodiak seemed to pick up speed as we rocketed into Loki's thin atmosphere. We dropped low, uncomfortably low. I knew the score, this wasn't my first hot drop, but Loki's topography was woefully inadequate for bobbing and weaving. Krupkova was doing anything she could to give our pursuer a challenge.

Our transport was rocked by a glancing blow from the enemy on our hind-quarters. I was throttled forward. I smashed into Gonzales who careened off the bulkhead with a thud and a grunt.

"I don't know what that is, but it's completely ignoring our kinetic barriers!" Krupkova informed us. Her teeth were grit and her arms flexed under the duress of the flight controls. "Strap yourselves in!"

I firmly planted my ass in a nearby troop-seat. Without ceremony we strapped ourselves into our safety harnesses. The krogan, old man and asari did the same. The krogan appeared to be utterly terrified by what was happening. "Are we going to die?" he half-shrieked.

"Who knows, mate," I said. I didn't fucking know, how could I reassure him? The asari sat quietly—seemingly at peace with her impending death. Her predicament was a cruel example of how terrible life could be. One most she was being saved only to be vaporized in the dark, lonely vacuum of space the next alongside her would-be rescuers. Perhaps she was safer down in that cage.

The Kodiak shuddered violently as we were struck again. "We're hit. We're not going to be able to take much more of that!" Krupkova shouted from the cockpit. I could feel the vessel pitch and shift as she attempted to maneuver us to safety, but she had little to work with. The barren, frozen continent on Loki was void of any true protection. She could yank and bank all she liked, but it would delay the inevitable.

I felt my fingertips digging into the material inside my gloves as I clutched at my safety harness. What would that do? I could tighten my grip until my fingernails bled and it wouldn't prevent a miserable death. _Just don't go out like a bitch, Wiley_.

I felt the Kodiak yaw and begin to roll, Krupkova must have been desperate. Again the transport shook violently from another impact. "We're going down… I can't… I can't keep her up. Brace yourselves!"

It felt like gliding. All power seemed to dissipate and we were being carried down to the surface by our own inertia where we would careen into the hard-packed fields below. I felt oddly at peace now. Choice in the equation had been removed by the cruelty of fate. I hadn't imagined it to end like this; I thought death would find me in a desperate fight for something important… or maybe that's all any of us could have hoped for. The reality was more dismal now as our smoking Kodiak plummeted toward the unforgiving harshness of the surface below. At the very least death would be quick and I would be spared the agony of bleeding to death. I closed my eyes and waited for the unforgiving truth of the ice below to envelop my entire being.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

If there's one thing that I should have learned by now it was never be so certain you're going to cash in your chips. I had certainly survived enough harrowing brushes with death in the past, but then that was an easy thing to miss when you are staring at your imminent doom.

My lids fluttered open and my eyes were screwed up by the bright rays of slanted light beaming down from Asgard. I blinked repeatedly, trying to banish the harmful beams from my unprepared vision. When normalcy returned I could see the one-eyed asari hunched over me. That single, grave eye stared down with a degree of concern. Strange.

"Are you okay?" she questioned in a voice so innocent it could have belonged to a child; if not for the more aged inflections. She must have noticed me moving.

"Sure," I stated without really knowing. I tried to sit up and then let out a horrendous moan as pain racked the side of my body.

"I think you might be hurt," she pointed out with her decidedly well attuned detective skills.

"Really?" I sounded surprised. Still, I forced my body upright. My eyes were greeted by the burning hulk of the Kodiak. There were figures around me, thankfully. I was unsure how I could interact with this asari's quirky characteristics.

Mac knelt down in front me. "You okay, buddy?" he asked with a leveled amount of emotion. Mac was always careful not to get too gushy. But it was evident by his tone that he was happy I was alive and kicking.

"As far as I can tell. Ribs hurt like hell, though," I grimaced. My gloved hands rubbed at the hardened ablative armor that encased my gooey center. "Did we lose anyone?" I didn't really want to know, but it was the only question to ask at the moment.

"Yeah, afraid so," Mac admitted glumly. He shook his head, then turned to face the wreckage. "The old man we saved didn't make it. He couldn't get an emergency rebreather on in time and asphyxiated."

"Is that it?" I questioned. The man's death, while regrettable, was of no great concern to me.

"No. The Lieutenant, Singh, and Krups are gone, man," his voice was immensely melancholy. He may have been resistant to gushiness, but it was apparent this colossal loss was weighing heavily upon him.

"Damn it," I muttered. What pitiful words, could I offer my friend no better? I was not the emotional type and I could never convey sadness well to others. My curse sounded hollow even to me. Something inside me stirred, but for some reason there was no overwhelming sadness. It was clear Mac had been affected to a far greater extent than I had. _There's a time to mourn the dead_, I thought. "Where are we?" I was desperate to change the subject.

"Hell if I know," Mac responded, turning back toward me. It was hard to see how he was dealing with the loss with his face hidden behind the slick veneer of his breather helmet. But his eyes were easy to see and the pain was more than evident there. "Shinokawa, Dyson and Gunny are scouting the surrounding area. They're looking for some prominent terrain feature around here that will help us get our bearing."

"Good luck with that," I grimaced, surveying our bleak surroundings. Like the rest of Loki that I had traversed it was devastatingly flat, which meant land navigation would be easy, but only if we could find something easy to distinguish in order to help us plot our own position. The one downside to navigating with technology meant that you were doing things the old fashion way when said technology was out of commission. That was notoriously difficult given some alien topography—Loki especially.

I tried to clamor to my feet and was overwhelmed with pain. I let out a gasp and dropped to one knee. "Please, you mustn't push yourself," the asari crooned.

"Who are you?" I demanded through grit teeth. Her attentive, caring attitude was rubbing me raw. I hated to be fussed over.

"My name is Johari Naiya," she replied with careful elocution. She placed her hand upon her chest and bowed her head to me.

"Charmed, mum," I stuttered, choking back the pain in my ribs.

"Is it not customary for your people to introduce themselves when they have requested introduction?" she asked, perplexed.

Mac snickered and walked toward the wreckage, obviously uninterested in this asari who seemed strangely unfamiliar with humans. "Oh, yeah, sorry. My name is Rafer—Rafer Wiley, Sergeant type."

"Then I am pleased to meet you Rafer Wiley, Sergeant type," she greeted with sweeping ceremony in her tone.

"You don't have to say Sergeant type, ma'am. It's my rank not my name," I explained. Finally the pain became too much to bear just to sustain myself on one knee so I plopped back down on my ass; an action that was not without its own degree of pain.

"Ah, very well, apologies for my misinterpretation. I am unfamiliar with human customs and your culture."

"You don't say?"

"What little I have learned I have gleaned from the people whom I shared… captivity with," the memory seemed to pain her. "I am a skilled healer on Thessia; so please trust me when I say your injuries are severe enough to cause concern. I believe you have damaged your skeletal structure, your ribs more specifically."

"You _are_ talented. I was having trouble detecting where the pain was coming from," I said dryly.

"Sarcasm is common amongst the asari too," she chided tenderly. That made me smile.

I looked over to see the krogan clutching at his oxygen mask like a frightened victim of a structure fire. He appeared very much the terrified survivor. It was wholly un-krogan like and very unseemly. "What's your deal?" I asked, but he did not respond, too distracted with drawing heaps of air from his mask.

"The krogan was panicking after we crashed. I helped him get his mask on and then assisted him to safety," Johari explained, noticing my curiosity with the krogan.

"Really?" I had to stifle a snicker, the thought of a diminutive little asari helping a big, brutish krogan that was choking back tears was almost enough to banish all the doom and gloom that surrounded us now. Almost.

"Yes, that was after I pulled your body from the wreckage," she elaborated. She rose to her feet and moved to check on the krogan as if he were a patient, leaving me speechless.

Gunny and our two snipers returned after a time and offered nothing in the way of good news. "No idea," was Tarkov's response when asked where we were. The same answer was heard when questioned about the location of the batarian hangar.

Gonzalez stood upright, eyes fixated on the distant stars and the much closer Asgard. "I suppose that won't help us."

"Not without being able to plot our own position," Tarkov reminded her.

"So what now?" Dyson asked.

"We activate the distress beacon and hunker down and wait," Tarkov seemed cool, like this was just another day on the job. "And we bury the dead."

And so they did. When I moved to assist them pain spiked throughout my torso and I was ordered by Gunny to stand down. I protested, but his boot to my chest as I attempted to rise to my feet was enough to silence any further dispute. I lay idly on the ice feeling low and useless. It was bad enough this tragedy had not gripped me like it had the others, but now I was left on the sidelines while they laid our comrades to rest. What a terrible place to be buried; frozen and barren. I wondered if my final resting place would be as bleak.

For the next few days we did our best to create something habitable out of the Kodiak's wreckage. There was no food to be had and by day three most of us were agonizingly hungry. The only benefit to being on a continent covered in ice was that there was no shortage of water, but that was a painful and agonizing chore. A couple of the Marines would crack some of the ice (surprisingly no easy feat), melt it down and then purify it. Then we would take turns filling one another's water reservoirs on our suits.

There was very little conversation, no one ever seemed to be in the mood and after several more days we started to become resigned to our fates as if we were just waiting for the inevitable. The pain in my ribs fluctuated between horrendous or non-existent. It all depended on how much I focused on my grumbling stomach.

Through it all Johari continued as my caretaker. In fact as our hunger grew and our energy faded she began to pick up the slack the others had left. She began to break up ice, melt and purify it like the others had done. She played dutiful caretaker to us all. Only Gunny Tarkov remained operational beside her, but his vast experience and skills were reduced simply to trying to make our deathbeds more comfortable. He reinforced our position with dense snow pack and did everything he could to create some semblance of insulation to keep us from freezing. But our armor was failing and though starvation would take weeks the hunger in the pits of our stomachs was enough to overcome any drive for survival.

After a time, though, even Johari's energy waned. She had amazed us all with her strength and resilience. It could not have been an easy feat having just been rescued from captivity and yet she embarrassed each of us; we who had thought ourselves so hardy. We had been trained in some of the harshest climates and terrain imaginable and forced to endure malnourishment, dehydration, sleep deprivation and more. Yet this tiny, barren little planet was going to seize our lives and like so many other crashes we would be forgotten like simple refuse or space debris.

As the long, frigid days continued I felt myself languidly drifting from one hour to the next, hardly aware of what was really happening around me. As I faded between consciousness and a dream state I could see Dyson and Shinokawa huddled together like the couple I'd always thought they were. The Gunny would often be stricken with a terrible fit of coughing; he was probably suffering from pulmonary adema at this point. Gonzalez was as lucid is I was—which is to say that she wasn't. Mac was as a quiet as a housecat, curled up and shivering amongst debris in what remained of the crew compartment. I could see the frost that had settled on the linear features of his marred armor. And if I stopped long enough to listen I could hear my own teeth chattering inside the hood I still wore.

On Earth there are still those few that cling to religion. The discovery of aliens and technology and far flung, ancient civilizations did little to shake their faith. And faith, to them, was paramount. They talked about the importance of their faith, about God, about angels. I didn't know anything about it. I do know what a miracle is, however, and I was certain they existed as I saw the all-too familiar outline of shipping head for our crash site. The ever-prevalent star Asgard basted our surroundings in an inviting amber hue undoubtedly lulling these newcomers into a fall sense of calm and serenity.

When it had settled I immediately recognized the small craft for what it was; a UT-47A Kodiak. The familiar old girl had been my chariot into battle for so many years. Even now as I huddled inside the charred carcass of a burned out Kodiak whose pilot had saved my life I had never treated it with anything resembling respect or reverence. But seeing it now painted in Alliance colors at it descended to the surface, its reinforced cabin door raising to reveal armor-clad angels, it was the closest thing to a deity I could ever conjure.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

The smell of antiseptic and medi-gel flooded my nostrils as soon as I became aware. I awoke to a world bathed in bright white artificial light. I could feel the hard, unforgiving surface beneath my body; which had been stripped of its armor. I looked over to see a tube connected to a catheter that was taped to my forearm. A needle had been pressed into my flesh and was piping fluids to me intravenously. I felt woozy as I came to.

"Rise and shine," a voice said with leveled humor. "Welcome to the SSV Normandy, Marine."

My clouded vision focused on a behemoth of a man, quite possibly the largest human being I had seen in recent times. He wore his muscles like I wore my armor. His bulk seemed to dominate the sterile environment of what I assumed was a medical bay upon the Normandy. He kept his facial hair trimmed neatly in the form of a chin strap and fashioned his hair in that prototypical Marine way—dangerously close to a Mohawk. His brown eyes were friendly and inviting; in fact he seemed altogether relieved that I was waking.

"You've been out for some time, Sergeant," this coming from an older woman that had a clinical look to her seated behind a desk to the monstrosity's left. Gray hair told me she was a seasoned veteran and had probably patched young jarheads like me up a thousand times. Still, she didn't offer that muted comfort that Johari had. There was an aura of healing to that asari and while this woman spoke to me in a kind tone and seemed sincerely concerned with my well-being it didn't feel half as reassuring. She had that detached Alliance fastidiousness to her like she was accustomed to loss and that it was to be expected in times of war, like if you didn't make it under her knife she could accept it because Marines died.

"I'm Lieutenant James Vega and this Doctor Chakwas, Normandy's chief medical officer," the big man made the introductions. "I've been dropping in on you guys every day to check on your status."

"Well thank you, sir. I'd salute you but I'm terribly concerned I might yank this tube out of my arm," I responded with a grumble.

"Don't worry, military protocol is pretty relaxed around here," he commented waving a 'forget about it' hand at me.

"I'm afraid if that weren't the case the crew might break given the immense amount of pressure everyone is under," the Doctor added with that same clinical tone.

"You rescued us?" I questioned with squinted eyes. I was still adjusting to the brightness.

"Yeah, sort of by accident I guess," Vega began to explain. He crossed his bulky arms, the muscles of which protruded severely from beneath his altogether too tight t-shirt. Well, if you got 'em flaunt 'em I guess. "We've been out scouring every system looking for assets. Anyone, or anything that can help us with the fight back on Earth. We sent a probe down to the surface of Loki, picked up your distress signal and well… here you are."

"Fight back on Earth?" I was puzzled. I indolently scratched at my forehead. I seemed to recollect something about that.

"You mean you don't know?" the Lieutenant asked incredulously. He and the doctor exchanged grave looks. "Earth has been attacked. Our fleets have been shattered… the 2nd fleet alone has been completely destroyed. Arcturus is gone and Earth has been taken."

"By whom? How the hell is that even possible?" I demanded almost upset. This all just seemed absurd. Humanity may not have been the strongest force in the Milky Way, but there wasn't a force out there that could overwhelm our forces so quickly and with such ease, let alone destroy Arcturus and occupy Earth.

"The reapers, hombre," Vega exclaimed. The title meant nothing to me and he must have been able to tell by the confused look upon my face. "You remember the battle of the Citadel?"

"Yes."

"You remember Sovereign?"

"That big ass geth ship?"

"That wasn't a big ass geth ship. It was a reaper," he said the name again as if it was going to mean more to me this time.

"Okay… so what is a reaper?" I questioned patiently. I noticed that the pain in my ribs had faded greatly. At least that was something.

"Ancient sentient machines set on some cycle of destruction. Every 50,000 years or so they show up out of dark space and harvest most living species in the galaxy," Vega explained at length. He still seemed shaken up over the entire thing. Who could blame him? If what he was saying was true it was almost impossible to comprehend. It still hadn't sunk in with me yet. "They're just as strong as Sovereign was, if not more so. They poured out of dark space in force, destroyed the batarian hegemony and annihilated Sur'Kesh before they moved on humanity. Admiral Hackett and the combined power of the Systems Alliance moved to oppose them and they swept them aside like toys."

I sat there in silence as his unbelievable words were translated into reality in my head. "How… how many dead?" I asked, not even sure what else to say. The immensity of all that he was saying seemed too profound, too difficult to even comprehend. It was impossible. Surely this was a dream, or I died on Loki and this was a sick sort of afterlife.

"Millions at least," Vega said solemnly. "But no one really knows. They've destroyed most of our comm-buoys so communication with Earth is pretty spotty. There are a handful of quantum entanglement systems down there and that's the only way we've been able to stay in touch. Bu with everyone so overwhelmed there's no way of telling just how bad the destruction is."

"So what's the plan?" I perked up, attempting to think like a Marine. So we'd been attacked? Fine, it was time for a counterattack right? It was time to take action, time to take the fight to the reapers and take back Earth. There had to be some sort of operation being sketched out by the powers that be. They may have made a habit out of sending me on some pretty questionable ops over the years, but I gave them enough credit to piece something together. Admiral Hackett was a damn fine leader, after all.

"You'll have to talk to Loco if you want to get the details on that," the bodybuilder exclaimed. "I'm not privy to all the information." He seemed somewhat bitter about that.

"Loco?"

"Eh, yeah sorry. Commander Shepard."

"The hero of Elysium _and_ the Citadel? That's your boss?"

"That's him. I thought you would have guessed as much when I said you were on the Normandy," Vega elaborated. I hadn't given it much thought; the ship and the Commander were certainly famous enough. Or maybe infamous was a better word.

"I thought the Normandy was destroyed," I commented errantly. I remember precisely where I was and what I was doing when the reports went out that Commander Shepard had been killed. He was the Alliance's greatest hero and his death had been an immense tragedy, especially amongst the fighting ranks that looked upon him like the embodiment of every warrior virtue. He was the culmination of the N7 program, what we all hoped to be.

"That one was, yeah, but Cerberus built another."

"The former black ops guys that turned rogue and became a terrorist organization?" How convoluted was the truth anyway?

Lieutenant Vega chortled. "Look hombre, we don't have enough time in the universe for me to draw out the details." He scratched the back of his head in contemplation. "Hell, I'm not even sure I understand them all anyway."

"Where's the rest of my team?" I noticed the med-bay was empty.

"They've all recovered quite nicely," this was from Doctor Chakwas. "Your Gunny was the first one up once he heard he was aboard Commander Shepard's ship. I don't think I've ever seen anyone recover from pulmonary edema that fast."

I raised a brow in interest. If someone was going to crush a life threatening condition it would be the Gunny. I'm sure if they took samples of genes they could cure cancer.

"I think they know each other from back in the day. You know how it is with old-time salt dogs like that," Vega added.

"In time the rest of your team was up and moving as well. The asari, despite her grievous wound has been a great help in administering care to the others. Your injuries were the worst, but you're shaping up nicely now." She seemed very proud of that fact.

"There was a krogan too," I muttered, remembering the runt of a lizard that he was.

"Yes, his accelerated regeneration allowed for a quick recovery. I haven't seen much of him lately, though."

"He keeps mostly to himself down on the hangar deck," Vega told me. "Listen, if you need anything you can find me around here or down in the armory. I've got some weapons maintenance to get to. But hey, I'm glad to see you up and moving."

"Thank you, sir," I nodded and he returned the gesture and left.

"They'll be serving dinner soon. If you're feeling up to it I recommend you give a solid meal a try. You've been on a liquid diet for over a week now," Doctor Chakwas stated, pointing at the IV plugged into my arm.

"I think I'd like a home cooked meal," I rasped. I let out a cough, attempting to clear my throat.

"Don't get your hopes up. We may have the single greatest hero aboard this ship, but the food is average at best." She smiled warmly and let out a chuckle. She deftly removed the needle from my arm and taped a small bit of dressing in its place. "I'll leave you to get dressed then, Sergeant." She followed the Lieutenant out.

There was a set of Alliance fatigues on the examination table beside me. I struggled off my own table and immediately felt the breeze from the ventilation system blowing through my nether regions. Apparently I was dressed in a typical hospital gown and by cheeks were on full display. Wonderful. I heard the hiss of the doors open once more, but was altogether too busy trying to unfold my trousers to see who had entered. I assumed the Doctor had forgotten something.

Letting your guard down was something you rarely did in my line of work, but then I had assumed I was entirely safe aboard Commander Shepard's ship. I couldn't have been more wrong. Without any warning, save for the door that I had misinterpreted as the doctor's return, I felt a blinding, searing sting upon my ass. I let out a yelp and leapt a foot off the deck. My landing was ungraceful, with a severe lack of strength I fell forward saved only by the exam table where my new fatigues were stacked.

Grimacing, I looked behind me to see who it was that had assaulted me. Gonzalez stood beaming at me with a radiant smile and brandishing the hand/weapon she had just used upon me. "Wakey, wakey hands off your snakey," she blared. I wished I was still unconscious. "I'm so happy you're awake, big guy."

"Your big guy just left," I responded, trying to yank my trousers up over my still stinging ass cheeks.

"Oh Lieutenant Vega? Yeah, that guy is muy caliente."

I shook my head and yanked the Navy blue Alliance skivvy shirt on over my head. "I think you left a welt," I remarked, rubbing my buttocks through the thick trouser material.

"Good. It's about time you get that lazy ass up," she teased.

"It's so good of you to be concerned for my well-being," I stammered as I began to limp my way to the door, more from the slap she had given me than my own weakened state.

"I have a three year old, Wiley, and you sleep more than he does. Or, better yet, you spend more time on your back than the asari consort back on the Citadel. Or wait—" she would have gone on forever if I hadn't silence her.

"I got it, I got it."

I joined the rest of the team on the mess deck; the smell of meat being grilled and rice being steamed infiltrated my nostrils like a skilled assassin. Already I was salivating, my heart raced at the thought of a good, solid meal.

My comrades slapped me on the back and made similar comments along the lines of Gonzo's and I received yet another smack on my ass from MacMillan who was apparently very enthused by my awakening. They made some introductions with the Normandy crew, all of whom seemed affable enough and in short order the cook, who may as well have been a chef by the smell of the meal he had prepared, brought out the entrée.

I dug in with little formality, completely forsaking my manners. I ate with a voracious appetite; I was a man who hadn't eaten in a thousand years. I had starved to death, rotted and had my remains blown away with the sands of time only to be reborn and treated to a meal befitting a king. My mother, God rest her soul, would not be happy with my behavior. But then those who had understood, or shared my plight were unconcerned. Most of them only laughed at the spectacle and wisely avoided getting in my way.


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

I felt an odd sense of apprehension going in. I had no clue why Gunny Tarkov would want to see me while he spoke to Commander Shepard, but meeting a hero you so often heard about seemed to make me nervous. I chided myself inwardly for feeling like a little boy. It was that innocent, raw sort of exhilaration I felt as a child before going to my first rugby match back home.

"You okay, Sergeant?" one of the female Marines standing watch in the small compartment leading to what they referred to as the 'War Room' asked. "You look a little flush."

"Completely copasetic, thank you," I said and tried on a smile.

"Okay then. Just step through the scanner please," she instructed, motioning to the blue field before me. It was much like the technology I had seen on visits to the Citadel. It was an odd thing to have aboard an Alliance frigate, but then maybe they knew something I didn't.

I stepped forward to be scanned and the two ladies went about chatting like I wasn't even there. Truly diligent professionals, but then I suppose guard duty in this non-descript little alcove of the SSV Normandy was probably quite tedious.

Walking into the War Room was like stepping into another CIC, but I quickly learned that everything that took place here directly related to the coordination of assets put forward in the fight against the reapers. From what the crew had told me earlier Shepard was playing diplomat and warrior for all the races in the galaxy attempting to bring together a powerful alliance to stop the reapers. So far, however, he had only secured turian support and that was entirely subject to Shepard getting the krogans to help the turians. It sounded very tortuous to me and I was glad just to be a grunt on the frontlines. _Give me a rifle and point me to the enemy_, I thought as I looked around.

The centerpiece of the entire room was a circular console used to manage war assets and view galactic readiness based on a collection of reports that the Normandy staff were gathering, vetting, collating and organizing for the Commander to view. This console was surrounded by various substations manned by the Normandy's crew where they could analyze intelligence, survey logistic statistics, coordinate supply chains, and review operational after action reports.

A ring of additional consoles skirted the exterior bulkhead a step up from the platform where the war terminal resided. More crew worked at these stations coordinating with their sister services and peers in other species' fleets as well as sending out diplomatic dockets to allied races in order to try and convey the plight humans were facing on Earth. It was very much like a miniature embassy and as my eyes searched the crowded space they set upon the Ambassador who presided over it all. He was coming out of a backroom where I had been told a quantum entanglement device was housed.

Commander Shepard was shorter than I expected, but I suppose that was common with mythic figures that had stories paint them as larger than life. Shepard, hero of the Skyllian Blitz, the first human Specter, the man that thwarted Saren and destroyed Sovereign, who saved the Citadel and its council from the geth, prevented the abduction of countless human colonists across the Terminus and destroyed the Collectors stood before me like any old mortal man rather than the god he had been portrayed as. His corporeal form seemed to be so vulnerable despite his apparent level of fitness and I realized then that all the stories and legends about the man were all the more significant because of that fact alone. He was a human being, a normal man that had achieved incredible feats of daring, a man that had gone up against the most perfidious threats in the history of the galaxy and survived. He was taller than I, but not by much. He stood with that all-too familiar military rigidity, but utterly composed and comfortable in this environment despite being well outside of his element. His brown hair was cropped short as was common in the service. His square, soldierly jaw tapered into a strong chin. Alert, sincere blue eyes looked upon Gunny Tarkov with that deep sense of camaraderie men only build when sharing misery and hardship together.

Tarkov, seemingly uncomfortable in this atmosphere, motioned me over. "Sergeant Wiley, with the Lieutenant gone I've taken command of the team and you're my number two." He leveled his stern, calculating eyes on me looking for any sign of a reaction. I must have shown none, because he appeared satisfied.

"Dmitri," the legendary hero greeted as he exited the communications room. They shook hands and Shepard turned his eyes upon me.

"This is my number two—Sergeant Rafe Wiley," Tarkov introduced me. I nodded and shook the Commander's offered hand.

"You know Commander Shepard?" I asked skeptically, put off by the familiarity of the greeting the Commander had shown.

"He's the one that harassed me to go N7," the Commander said with a sly grin.

"We were old squad mates before I became a candidate and after I graduated I told him he'd be a good fit," Tarkov admitted.

"Seems like an eternity ago," Shepard added.

"It was, Shepard. We are old men. Just look at these baby-faces we have now," Tarkov motioned at me and laughed. I felt my face redden slightly. I had fought in constant skirmishes; I was a veteran of the war against the geth and I had participated in dozens of high risk operations, but to these two guys I was just a baby-faced recruit. I guess the old saying was true; you're always a boot to someone.

"N6? That's nothing to balk at," Shepard commented, attempting to make me feel less like a fool. It worked, any compliment from a man as lauded as he was sure to carry weight. Still, it was true enough.

Any N designation carried a degree of prestige with it; you were special operations after all. But there was something almost mythical in the N7 designation. The program graduated so few candidates annually that even being selected for the attempt could garner esteem. N7 graduates had gone on to have varied, successful military careers and their accomplishments were often the stuff of legends. Commander Shepard was an obvious example of that, but even Gunny Tarkov was surrounded by whispered tales of fending off wave after wave of attacks by hostile forces while wounded; or saving the lives of his entire team on missions with seemingly suicidal odds. He seemed to be a man impossible to kill and if the stories about Shepard's resurrection by Cerberus were to be believed than it only lent credence to the belief that an N7 designation meant you were joining the ranks of the most terrifyingly effective force in the history of mankind. The very nature of their classified operations made it impossible to verify if the entire mystique surrounding them was true or just a well maneuvered information campaign on behalf of the Alliance campaign. But Shepard was enough evidence to believe the former.

"So what's the plan then, Commander? Are my people joining you here aboard the Normandy?" Tarkov questioned. He was good at maintaining that constant air of professionalism and his voice was often void of any emotional inflections, so it was hard to get a read on the man. But I could have sworn I detected a bit of hopeful expectance in his voice now.

"I'm afraid not, Dmitiri," Shepard shook his head with a frown. "I just finished reporting in to Admiral Hackett on the status of your team and he put me in touch with Admiral Anderson back on Earth."

"David Anderson? I remember him. The last time I saw him ways age ago; he was still an instructor when I ran through ICT. Terribly harsh training he put us through. We all thought that he was a sadist, but he used to always say 'We're preparing you for harsher times than these'. He must have been psychic."

"The one and the same. He's done well for himself; especially with the committee gone and Arcturus destroyed- most of the remaining brass is putting a lot of weight on him. He's coordinating the resistance effort on Earth," Shepard explained. He was speaking, but at the moment he seemed far away as his eyes looked beyond us both. Shepard was a fighter, a true warrior in every sense of the word and you could tell he was wishing that he was on Earth beside Anderson.

"How is that going?" None of us had any real idea of just how bad things were back on Earth. Losing most of my family long before this seemed like a tragedy at the time, but now it was almost a blessing. I had seen how the invasion of Earth had affected some of the others who still had family there. I had no such concerns.

"Not well I'm afraid," Shepard expressed with concern. "Millions are killed or harvested every day. The resistance is fragmented and spread out and has to rely on ineffective hit and run operations. Anderson is having trouble gathering a large enough force to plan an attack of any consequence; the Reapers are good at locating large concentrations of organic life. He says it's like being a gnat trying to bring down a giant. But that's where you come in."

Tarkov looked puzzled but remained focused.

"As soon as he heard your name he jumped at the opportunity to get you orders Earthside. He says he can use your team out there; the very nature of what they're doing—they're limitations and order of battle—lends itself well to what Delta is good at. He needs you down there, Dmitri. You and all your experienced men and women," he elaborated, giving me a cursory nod.

"Then that's where we'll go, John," Tarkov offered his hand.

Shepard shook it and offered a consolatory smile. "I can't say you wouldn't be an asset aboard this ship, but at least I can tell you with confidence that I have a solid team backing me."

"I would expect nothing less from you."

I left the war room with a feeling of apprehension and dread mingled with excitement and anticipation. So we were going to Earth? Hadn't I wanted that? Now I wasn't as sure as I thought about what Commander Shepard had said regarding the state of the resistance. Were these reapers truly so powerful? It was like being a gnat and trying to stop a giant? In my experience most annoying gnats got swatted. Now I was going to put myself in the role of a tiny insect… Brilliant.

Gonzalez met up with me as I stepped back into the CIC. She was talking to a young woman near the galaxy display. "This is an exciting ship, Wiley," she proclaimed with excitement as she saw me approach. "There are aliens, stealth technology, advanced communications tech and an unshackled AI!" She seemed like a kid in a candy store. "I hope we're staying."

"Let me crush your dreams then," I said with a truculent chuckle. "We're going to Earth."

Gonzalez responded with an emphasized frown.

"Let me be the first to wish you good luck then," the caramel colored woman Gonzo had been speaking to chimed in. Her accent was clearly from the south of England. "Earth has become quite a dangerous place. I have the… unfortunate duty of parsing through a lot of the comm traffic and most of it isn't good."

"You're from England?" I questioned.

"No, Horizon," she replied with a smile. "My parents were from London originally but opted to live on a colony rather than Earth. I spent several years there when I studied at Oxford, though and I consider myself English. By your accent I'd have to guess… Yorkshire?" Her ears were quite keen. My accent had deteriorated having been gone from home for so long and I had always done my best to refrain from local slang so other would understand me.

"Spot on. Sheffield."

"I'm sorry to say much of England has suffered terribly since the reaper invasion. London was one of the first cities struck, but I know reaper forces have spread out to strike at other major metropolitan areas… with such a large population Sheffield…" her voice trailed off and I could tell she was not practiced at delivering bad news.

"No worries," I stopped her. "My family is long gone. I only have a sister left and she's safe living on the Citadel." At least I hoped she was safe. All indications from the Normandy crew that I had spoken to earlier were that the Citadel was untouched by the conflict thus far and as a result seemed to live in ignorant bliss. I selfishly hoped it would stay that way so that my sister and her kids would be safe. But if the reapers were as strong as everyone claimed then it would only be a matter of time before the Citadel was embroiled in this war as well.

"That's good to hear," she replied more buoyantly. It's as if I lifted a weight from her chest when she learned her news had not struck a chord in me. "My name is Samantha Traynor, by the way." She introduced herself somewhat awkwardly, offering a hand.

"Rafe Wiley," I replied, shaking her hand. I noticed it was a bit sweaty as if she were nervous in our presence. She shifted her weight and scratched the back of her neck.

"We were about to head down to the hangar deck, Wiley. Lieutenant Vega is going to go a few rounds with Dyson," Gonzo seemed excited by the prospect of gladiatorial combat down below, or maybe she just wanted to see her crush get all hot and sweaty. I supposed that sort of thing was good for morale and would keep everyone's mind off of just how shitty our situation truly was.

A makeshift ring had been crafted by the array of people gathered to witness the venue. Normandy crew intermingled with my own team laughing, joking and chatting between one another about the two combatants' prospects of victory. Even one of the alien crewmembers was present; a grim looking scarred turian clad in blue and silver armor and wearing something not unlike a kuwashi visor over his left eye. People even seemed to be making bets.

We jockeyed our way into the ring of excited onlookers and I measured up each fighter. On one hand was the behemoth James Vega, well-muscled and looking every bit the aggressive Marine. He appeared calm and collected, but a sly smirk was present upon his scarred face. It seemed as if he had appraised the threat before him and found it lacking.

Dyson on the other hand wore a mask of serenity. Despite being tall, he was not particularly bulky. He didn't lack for muscle, but where Vega was bulky like a body-builder Dyson was lean and wiry. I knew this was deceptive, however, having seen Dyson get into it in the past. I felt like putting some credits down on the bout, but decided against it. Vega was an unknown to me and he looked pretty menacing.

One of the Normandy crew was in the center explaining the rules; they were straight forward if not a bit draconian. No nut shots, no eye gouges, no scratching or pinching, but pretty much everything else was okay. I never understood people's willingness to beat upon one another like slabs of meat in a ring, but that wasn't going to stop me from cheering on my mate.

"Let's go Dyson you bloody bastard! Give him a proper braying!" A roar of counter cheers swelled from the Normandy crew. I felt as if I was back in Leeds watching a Rhinos match.

Miniature little Shinokawa stood beside me cussing up a storm, willing Dyson to get violent, get dirty and be downright ruthless. I had never heard her so vocal in all the time I had worked with her. But then Dyson was her partner and she'd naturally want to see him win.

The two stepped forward, fists at the ready and knocked knuckles with each other. As soon as things began there was a roar of cheers and shouts from the assembled crowd as two warriors were pitted against one another.

Vega shuffled forward and back trying to lure Dyson into striking him, but the N6 made no such overtures. He circled around to the right confidently pacing across the ring, eyeballing Vega like a hawk. Vega, being the aggressive one, tired of this tactic and shot forward letting go with a flurry of heavy-handed jabs and hooks. Dyson parried some of the blows and ducked or dodged below some of the others, all the while backing up. Vega stymied his assault for a moment, took a few steps back and flexed his shoulders and joints back as if to indicate that was only a warm up. Dyson's eyes remained locked on the target.

Again Vega advanced, expecting things to go as they had before. But he was caught off guard when Dyson threw a lightning fast jab forward, catching the bigger Marine in the mouth. His head snapped back from the force, but he shook it off. A tiny bit of blood trickled down. His bear-sized paw reached up and wiped it away. He smiled at Dyson. "It's going to take more than that." Dyson's eyes remained leveled on his opponent.

"Get his ass! Beat him to a pulp Felix!" Shinokawa jeered, using Dyson's first name. I looked over, startled by her tenacious spirit.

Dyson moved forward this time and as he approached Vega swung on him. Dyson swatted away the poorly aimed attacks, got in close and delivered two blows to Vega's midsection then followed that up with an uppercut that landed squarely on Vega's concrete jaw. But James Vega was an animal and he seemed un-phased by the attack. He countered with his own swing, the first of which Dyson sidestepped but Vega followed that up with a spinning rear elbow strike. The blow struck Dyson across the temple. He reeled backwards, but stayed on his feet. A gash was opened up beside his eyebrow and some blood ran freely down his cheek bone.

Gonzalez was rooting for her crush, exhilarated by the sight of his muscles which were now starting to glisten from a sheen of sweat that was forming.

James Vega, like a shark that smelled blood in the water, dashed forward to continue his assault but was hampered by a push kick from his target. This stopped his forward momentum and it was apparent it knocked some breath out of him. Dyson followed up by dropping low and performing a leg sweep which took the large Marine off his feet. Before Dyson could follow up, however, Vega had scrambled back to his feet. The crowd was roaring with excitement and I joined in, shouting for Dyson to finish Vega off.

The two squared off a few more times, closing to within arms' reach and then throwing a flurry of punches and elbows. I saw that Vega favored using only his upper body and Dyson reacted by round kicks to his thighs and calves. Vega grimaced with each blow and after a few of those had landed he got fed up. He charged at Dyson like an angry bull, throwing haymakers like a wild man. Some of these hit their mark while others missed harmlessly or were blocked by my squad mate.

Once Vega got in close he tied Dyson up. For a moment it looked as though Dyson was in trouble, Vega wrestled him to the deck hard and Dyson was on his back, but in a flash the smaller Marine had Vega's arm and had wrapped his legs around Vega's neck trying to perform a triangle choke. Vega, sensing this, used his immense strength to rise up, lifting Dyson off the deck in order to slam him into the hard surface. Dyson, however, countered this attempt by locking one of his arms around Vega's leg. When Vega tried to slam him they both went crashing into the ground and Dyson had avoided what would have been a crushing collision. Now Vega struggled against Dyson who tightened his hold on the bulky Marine's arm and squeezed as tightly as a python with his legs. Vega was bent forward off balance and unable to leverage his weight against the smaller Marine. Meanwhile Dyson used as much torque as possible. It took a while, but Vega finally tapped and Dyson relinquished his hold.

There were cries of discontent from the Normandy crew and money changed hands as the gamblers took their winnings and boasted about their selection. Vega slapped Dyson on the back and shook his head with disappointment. "Nice work, man."

Shinokawa ran over and hugged her partner. "I knew you'd win," she declared. Felix Dyson only laughed, still attempting to catch his breath.

"Hey big guy if you're feeling a little sore and need a massage I can oblige," Gonzalez offered with a glimmer in her green eyes.

Vega chuckled sheepishly and scratched at the back of his head. "Yeah, I'm not so sure that's the best idea right now."

"Your loss, sweetie," she stated with a suggestive wink.

"Nice work, mate," I commended Dyson, throwing a weak punch that struck his arm.

"That guy hits like a freight train. I don't know how he didn't knock me out," Dyson laughed with a degree of disbelief.

"Hell yes!" MacMillan approached with a massive smile plastered on his face. "I just won five hundred credits. Nobody thought you were going to win Felix and I mean _nobody_."

"Except you apparently," Dyson responded, wiping some of the blood from his cheek.

"Well I remember that time you took me down in like a minute and a half. And I'm pretty sure you choked Wiley out even faster than that," MacMillan teased, although it was true.

These were the moments I loved, the moments when the team came together with little or no concerns and bonded. Misery was something we were accustomed to. Being tired, cold, or feeling homesick was something we had all learned to live with. But times like this with one another was what it made it easy. I wondered how we'd stand up to the terror that was taking place on Earth when we got there. How would we react in the face of such adversity?


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

The following day Gunny Tarkov explained to the team that we were headed to Earth to support the resistance under Admiral David Anderson. He told us that Commander Shepard had already diverted the Normandy whose stealth systems would allow our entry into the Sol System to go undetected by the reaper fleets. He elaborated on our insertion method and how we would link up with what remained of Alliance forces. Our attention was drawn to our insertion method.

"We're going to jump from low orbit," he announced cooly.

"Uh, what?"

"It's not a common insertion method, but it is possible," he told us, not feeling as if he needed to justify the decision any further.

"Have _you_ ever done it before?" MacMillan asked with interest.

"Yes. Twice in training and once on Torfan."

"I didn't know anyone inserted like that on Torfan. I didn't even know you were at Torfan," I said, mystified.

Tarkov gave me a _'no shit idiot'_ look. He went on to explain the details of the plan, where we would meet up on the ground and how we would find our allies currently engaged with fighting reaper forces outside Vancouver. To our surprise he told us that Johari, our would-be asari medic as well as the krogan refugee would be joining us. He tasked MacMillan and Dyson with familiarizing them with jump procedures. Both Marines began to protest but Tarkov silenced their dissent with an icy gaze.

Johari, it would seem, was hell bent on getting to Earth once she had heard about what the reapers were doing there. She wanted to help, it was all that she could imagine doing and she had no desire to the leave the team that had rescued her from captivity.

When asked about the krogan and his decision to join us (he had seemed quite cowardly to me on Loki) Tarkov seemed dismissive. He said only that the krogan was given the option of staying aboard the ship since Shepard was headed to Tuchanka after our jump, but the prospect of that was very unattractive to him and he requested to join our mad mission to Earth.

"I don't know if he's worth anything- frankly I don't care. If he's half the beast most of them are he could be useful down there. Maybe Admiral Anderson will have a use for him," Tarkov stated. He had a specific distaste for krogan, but never explained to us why. We weren't going to ask either.

"What's his name anyway?" Gonzalez questioned.

"Thax. I wouldn't bother talking with him, he doesn't seem to be the sociable type," Dyson answered. It sounded as if he had learned that from attempting conversation.

"Are any of them sociable?" That was a rhetorical question if there ever was one.

Much later I found it difficult to sleep. I rose from the cot that had been set up for me and groggily tip-toed out of the life support section, careful not to wake anyone from my team. It was hard to tell in space, but it was in the middle of the night and as a result most of the Normandy was empty; the CIC and cockpit were manned now by a skeleton crew. I made my way to the male latrine unsure of how to quell my restlessness. This had been a recurring issue of late and seemed to only get worse since the decision was made to return to Earth. I couldn't understand why I felt so restive.

With tired brown eyes I gazed at my own reflection in the mirror trying to make sense of what I saw; I looked more ragged and fatigued then I could have imagined. Why did I feel so troubled by the thought of going to Earth to fight? Wasn't it what I had wanted? I reached up and traced the gnarled flesh upon my chest with a calloused hand. Grisly scars marred my body in several places—all of them trophies from battles fought and won. Yet as I gazed at my disfigured flesh I felt vulnerable. Each wound, though healed, was a reminder of how death treads beside us on every mission. It was an unmistakable, malign presence each of us kept in the back of our mind.

Sacrifice was a watchword so casually tossed around by the Alliance and the historians who recorded its glories and we used it with a false sense of military bravado. The reality of sacrifice was so often counter to what we heard in tales of heroism and glory and I had seen it with my own eyes enough for it to leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Lieutenant Gammon, Lieutenant Krupkova, Corporal Singh and so many others had lost their lives in pitiful moments of human vulnerability. There was no grandiose last stand, no final charge into the fray, only a vain death in a nondescript locale that would only be remembered by those who saw it. The best one could hope for was that it wouldn't be agonizing.

Now I was headed for Earth and a fight that every reasonable fiber in my body screamed would be the death of me. There are those that would state fighting to the death for a glorious cause is righteous and honorable and that such martyrs are to be lauded as heroes. But in the dark, cold loneliness of space I questioned that. What good is victory if I have died to attain it and cannot savor it? I am not a religious man. There is no heaven or paradise waiting for me when I die. If the reapers killed me, who would remember my sacrifice? Would we even win the war to give my death any meaning? Or would the whole of humanity be wiped away and all of mankind condemned to the fate of something as insignificant as insects? And if the whole of mankind could be thought of in such a way what did that make me?

I splashed some cold water on my face and rubbed my weather-beaten cheeks. I needed to shelve the philosophy and keep it simple. _Be a warrior, live for the fight, die for a cause_, I thought. But I couldn't convince myself. Not now, not alone in the vacant halls of the Normandy, her crew fast asleep.

I yanked a tank top on exited the lavvy. I headed for the port side lounge to seek out a bottle that might help me sleep. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. The alcohol, even the hard stuff, was open for anyone to snag.

I pulled out a bottle I could identify and examined the label._ Tequila? Bleh_. I unscrewed the cap and took a healthy swig. It felt like I was pouring liquid hot magnesium down my gullet. I coughed and shook off the venomous bite of the stuff. I followed up the first shot with a second, but my reaction to the powerful alcohol was no better.

My attention was drawn back to the lounge's entrance. I heard the mechanical screech of the doors as they opened. I craned my neck to see who had entered. The scarred turian from the hangar deck the day before hovered in the entrance, apparently surprised to see me at the bar.

"Care for a sup, mate?" I asked him, trying to be neighborly. He smiled, or at least I think he did. It was hard to tell.

"Got my own," he said. He spoke with that common metallic vocalization present in every turian's voice. He glided past me and drew a bottle from a shelf behind the bar, uncapped it, and took a healthy swig. "Nothing like a nightcap after a long day of calibrations."

"Mind if I take a swig?" I asked, looking at his bottle and eager to try something besides tequila.

A rumbling, flanging chuckle emanated from deep within his chest. "This stuff would shred your insides, kid."

"I wouldn't doubt my skills, fella'," I responded challengingly.

"All right," he relented. "If you can handle a drink for a dextro." He held the bottle out for me.

I paused and looked at the bottle with a brow raised. "What?"

"I'm a dextro, you're a levo; we eat and drink differently. I guess humans don't spend much time on alien biology," he quipped. He spoke with a certain kind of smoothness. His words fell freely from his lips (did he have lips?) and slid slickly through the air to whoever was listening.

"Father always said I had more brass than brains," I admitted sheepishly. "I seem to remember someone saying something about that."

The turian sniggered and drank from his bottle once more. "Garrus Vakarian," he proffered a three-fingered hand that resembled more of a bird's talons, but I shook it and introduced myself. "You're part of that team that we picked up on Loki?" he questioned more as a statement. I nodded.

I took another drink of the tequila, protocol certainly was relaxed here. You'd never find a well-stocked bar on a standard Alliance frigate. "Can I ask you something?" I blurted suddenly.

The turian's eyes fixated on me. "Sure," he responded with a coppery drawl.

"You've been with Shepard for a long time right?"

"Since the beginning." He seemed very proud of that fact.

"So how do you think we measure up in all of this? With everything I keep hearing about the reapers it sounds like we're proper fucked," I exclaimed with a twisted expression of cluelessness emblazoned upon my face, which was becoming increasingly numb thanks to my serious lack of resistance to alcohol.

"You want me to tell you everything's going to be okay? You want me to say I've seen Shepard do the impossible time and time again and that he'll do the same now?" The turian narrowed his eyes on me.

"I… I don't rightly know what I want to hear," I admitted, feeling bashful. I didn't know what kind of a man this turian was, but I had to imagine that he had overcome great feats if he was one of Shepard's squad mates. Surely he could provide me a sense of confidence, a feeling of rightness in this whole mess.

"We're both soldiers and we have our orders. The best we can do is carry them out to the best of our abilities. But if you want my personal opinion, I think we're going to kick some reaper ass. Shepard is the best damn soldier I've ever seen," Garrus explained, flexing his brows and mandibles. "I wish I could offer more, but reassuring speeches aren't a strength of mine."

"So focus on what's in front of me instead of worrying about the big picture?" I asked aloud, though I was only reiterating what I thought he meant.

He replaced the bottle on the shelf from whence it came and started to walk off. He stopped beside me and placed a talon-like hand on my shoulder. "Just do your job, keep your people alive and Shepard will see us through this thing."

So everything was riding on Shepard? As I watched the doors seal behind the turian I wondered if that would be enough. How could one man make such a difference in the immense face of such cataclysmic events? The reapers were more grandiose than my imagination could conjure, but somehow this single man was shouldering the obligation of ridding the galaxy of this wicked threat? Suddenly my own burdens didn't seem quite so bad.


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

_Author's note:__ Hope you're all enjoying the story, I am heartily open to suggestions, critiques and so forth. Some of you may have heard of Felix Baumgartner's amazing feat of jumping from 120,000 feet and surpassing several records. Well, their return to Earth is dedicated to that man's insane willingness to do something so epic. _

I walked the length of the hangar deck quiet, a lump placed high in my throat. Giddiness welled up inside me from the deepest parts of my bowels. I could feel my heart pace quicken with every step I made toward that door. The sound of my footsteps, clad in armor, resonated within the empty hangar deck. All personnel not departing the Normandy had vacated the premises in order to allow us this most insane of spectacles.

I could see my team arrayed near the back. The squad carried a wild assortment of different weapons and they were all on display now as I approached. The hangar deck was brightly lit but mostly near the elevator. Gray shadows cascaded over the team's dinged up armor, but they stood ready for the task at hand. Even Thax appeared at ease, although it was hard to tell through the helmet he wore. Johari, despite her lack of experience, was also casually awaiting the jump, but there was no telling how many thoughts were running through her mind. For my part, my mind was certainly not clear or focused.

Once I joined the team pressure with the exterior was matched and like a setting sun the lengthy, hulking door on the deck lowered exposing the blue gem of Earth to us in its fullest, most glorious detail. The Normandy was orbiting the Earth low in the stratosphere, firing her RCS thrusters to give us a stable jump platform. I could see the blue halo surrounding our planet and far off in the distance I witnessed a barely visible sliver of the moon. As I neared the exit I gazed upon my homeworld with fascination. I could see cities in flames. Indeed, from here it looked as if entire nations were burning. But it was silent and the complete vacuum of space lent a perverse tranquility to the scene I witnessed. Miles below us people were dying—more than that they were being corralled together and harvested by the reapers.

I could see the gentle curve of the Earth; its surface was cast in a gloomy shadow as the sun shined brightly on the far side of the globe. There was still burning debris arcing toward the planet like asteroids, the remnants of satellites and global defense platforms obliterated by the reapers. It looked so much like a child's marble, just an inanimate plaything rather than the suffering world I knew it to be.

"Step up," Tarkov's flat tone crackled over the headset in my helmet. I could hear my breaths echoing in that helmet—it was a cavern for my own thoughts. My eyes focused on the planet as this wild scheme truly took hold in my mind. It looked as though I could bounce right off the atmosphere and out into space.

"Remember to account for drift and do your best to keep the DZ tight. Move fast and move hard to the rally point as soon as you're on the deck. See you on the ground," Tarkov's voice didn't change even in the slightest. He was a mad man, but he was our mad man and as I watched him step off into the darkness I pitied the foes that would come to face him.

Dyson flashed me a thumbs up. The crazy bastard was probably smiling broadly behind that breather mask. He readily followed behind the Gunny. Shinokawa was next, but left the deck with more apparent hesitation. And then it was my turn. I moved forward, choking back the urge to run free and clear from the brink.

I stared down toward the surface where grim clouds passed indolently over all of North America. It seemed unfathomable now that I could somehow guide myself safely to a region just outside Vancouver. The blanket of Earth spread out below me like a vast terror I couldn't overcome. I swallowed hard and looked back. Mac and Gonzalez gave me a nod, urging me forward with their silent support. I returned their nod and stepped off into nothing.

I was a graduate of military freefall; I had jumped from every altitude imaginable and opened my chute high in the sky and low, just before the deck. It was a requirement if you wanted to achieve any rating beyond N1. Yet my experience in that realm could not have prepared me for what followed.

My heart was in my throat trying desperately to escape this madness and force its way out of my mouth. I felt as if I was choking and I rocketed toward the planet at untold speeds. I had never experienced such a rush. I dropped from the sky like a comet, but had no sense of myself in the midst of it all. There was no wind resistance, which was what allowed me to accelerate to such blinding speeds, but that feeling of nothingness contributed to my inability to figure out my orientation. Was my form correct? An uncontrolled spin at this speed could be fatal. If I lost control of my descent I would plummet to Earth beyond the speed of sound and plaster myself against it like a can of red paint. My mates would be hard-pressed to find any remains.

I could see the Earth rising to meet me; with every passing second my target got bigger and the soft curvature of the world began to fade as I passed through the lower stratosphere and into the troposphere. I tracked hard left avoiding billowing gray clouds. My greatest concern was the clouds because I would lose sight of my fellow jumpers. I may have been jumping from above 41,000 meters but the principals of a high altitude jump remained the same. Keep an eye on fellow jumpers, avoid the clouds, look for a good chute and correct for drift to stay within the drop zone. Hurling toward the Earth at 850 miles per hour would make a midair collision very painful…

Breaking free of the stratosphere and entering into the troposphere I could finally feel the wind shear pounding against me and a sense of my orientation in the sky promptly returned. I checked my altitude—17,000 meters—my eyes darted around below me looking for another jumper tracking beneath me. Dyson, Shinokawa and the Gunny all jumped before me, but anyone that left the Normandy's deck after me could have passed me up. I could see the faint outline of an armored-clad figure well below me. I took a moment to relax; it would be a while before I deployed my chute.

As I got nearer and nearer to the surface the true extent of the calamity that had struck my home became more apparent. Even as I raced past 15,000 meters, so high things on the ground looked like a sprawling navy blue quilt, roads were like dark stitching to hold it altogether, the fields a paler gray. There were splashes of crimson and orange present beside reaper destruction. After checking my altimeter I looked again for a jumper below me; the one I had spotted before was still there tracking hard to the east. We planned on opening our chutes at a high altitude, around 7,500 meters up in order to prevent the sound of our opening canopies from drawing unwanted attention. A high opening would also allow us to travel a greater distance to our DZ. The procedures were simple enough; we would stack in the sky in order to drop in together with some degree of accuracy. I could use the GPS and compass built into my heads up display in order to guide myself closer to the drop zone and also correct for wind speed, but this practice would regularly be handled by the lowest man in the stack who would act as our guide to the DZ. That was Gunny Tarkov and he would likely land us dead on target.

I checked my altimeter again. I was nearing the release altitude and looked below to see if the jumper below me was conducting a wave off. Whoever it was they were performing the signal, which meant they were about to deploy their chute. As soon as this began I started my own wave off procedures in order to alert anyone within eyesight, or more importantly above me, that I was about to deploy. Below me I saw the other jumper's chute open and I immediately pulled my own ripcord. My hasty descent was arrested by the deployed canopy and I felt the force and shock of it against my chest cavity. I looked up to see if I had a good canopy—checking for any holes larger than the size of my helmet. No holes, I had a good chute. Then I checked my canopy's controllability. I steered it right, then left and braked. Everything was working perfectly. I'd be lying if I didn't say I felt relieved. My altimeter read 7,250 meters. I had a few minutes before I'd be groundside.

Below me I saw the swelling canopies of the other jumpers and we began to arrange ourselves in a stacked formation so we could be guided by the Gunny into our DZ and hopefully land nearby one another. Even in the graying darkness I could make out their form and I adjusted my controls to follow behind those who descended below me. As we grew closer to the ground I could see distant towns burning and miles off to the west there were great, squid-like shapes that stretched high into the sky against the backdrop of a besieged and fiery Vancouver. Their sinister, dark forms were trimmed in eerie red lines running the length and breadth of their fuselage. Reapers, no doubts about it.

Below me mighty evergreens and soldier pines extended in every direction, rolling out like a gloomy carpet. I maneuvered my canopy as best I could to avoid a severe impact with the trees that reached up at me like hungry appendages eager for a feast. I felt the branches and twigs snap against the force my entry into the upper layers of the forest's shelter. My armor spared me any real pain as I broke through limb after limb before getting strung up. Fortunately I was close to the deck and extended my omni-blade to cut away the rigging which I dangled from. I fell about three or four meters and felt the shock of my landing reverberate through my body. I was on the ground. I was back on Earth…

Cautious eyes studied the murky, forested surroundings. What moonlight there was offered little in the way of illumination and anything in the shade provided by the trees was very difficult to see.

My ears perked up, straining to hear any potential threats. It was silent, save for the occasional sound of a cricket chirping. I reached back and grabbed hold of my Mattock assault rifle. The mechanized sound of the weapon extending to its full potential in my hands was reassuring. With this, I could handle myself. I checked our team frequency trying to get in touch with the others, but it was no good. All this advanced technology and something as simple as a thick forest was enough to disrupt my signal. I swore under my breath and then viewed the compass in my heads up display. According to the navigation marker I had to head two kilometers southwest in order to make it to the rally point. With a great, deep breath of oxygen I set off in the hopes of reuniting with my team.

I moved with careful diligence through all the shrubs and undergrowth present in the forest. I was averse to notifying anything of my presence, even though I doubted any reapers or their soldiers would be this far out in the woods. I certainly hadn't seen any of the large ship-like figures anywhere nearby during my drop in. I heard the sound of a twig snap and without a conscious thought I swung my barrel around and oriented in the direction of the sound. My eyes could detect nothing in the darkness. A great conifer of some kind stretched high into the air above me. Its base was an amalgam of different vegetation. I crept forward, controlling my breathing with a special technique we had learned to keep our heart rate under control. My footsteps crunched with every step as there was an abundance of pine needles on the ground below me. I flipped my weapon off safe as I edged toward the bushes, my eyes narrowed on the source of the sound and I saw the undergrowth move ever-so-slightly. More sounds echoed in the woods and it was obvious there was something there.

"Come out," I ordered, feeling stupid for the command. If it was an animal it would pay me no mind. If it was some reaper creature it would attack me, but maybe it was a teammate.

"Rafe?" a familiar voice called.

"Who is that?"

"Johari," the one eyed asari emerged from the bush looking frightened. "I made it," she told me, indicating the jump we had done. "But as soon as I got on the ground I started hearing all these sounds. This place is awfully scary."

I smiled at her childlike fear of a dark forest. She high stepped her way carefully out of the brambles and brushed off some of the twigs that had latched onto her. She looked quite fetching in the black asari commando armor the asari aboard the Normandy had given her. But I knew she was no warrior. The Carnifex hand cannon she had been given for personal defense was still on her hip

"So what now?" she questioned me.

"We move to the rally point and link up with the rest of the team," I told her resolutely. I turned back in the necessary direction of travel and headed off with her close in tow. I kept my weapon drawn, but carried it with less concern than moments before.

We seemed to walk for ages. It could have been that I was getting impatient or nervous by the sheer fact we had yet to rendezvous with anyone from Delta. The forest was alive with different sounds, all of which originated from animals. There were crickets, occasional chirps, and even a howl or two. Johari seemed fascinated by it all. As we walked she gazed with awe at her surroundings.

"This place is teeming with life," she observed in a low tone. She was moving with precision through the brambles, attempting to be as quiet as possible. She may not have been a warrior, but she understood the importance of stealth.

"All the more important to stop the reapers," I said, trying to sound soldierly.

Another wolf let off a lengthy, high pitched howl. "What is that?" she asked.

"Wolf."

"I should like to see one sometime," she replied blithely.

We moved further on, beyond a small clearing and down beyond a shallow creek. Our path became easier as we began to descend a steady hillside. My eyes continued to search through the darkness looking for my squad, but more importantly for any threat. As I studied the terrain it became more apparent just how easy it would be to lay an ambush. That thought was always at the front of my mind, even though I felt the reapers probably didn't operate in such a manner. In truth, however, I had no idea what to expect.

The thoughts turning over in my head were shattered by the sudden sound of a horrible, shrilling shriek that sounded from behind us and carried high into the boughs of the forest's canopy. It was a terrible sound; the kind of thing you thought existed only in horror movies. It silenced everything around us. I stopped in my tracks and took a knee; my eyes darted all around us.

"What was that?" Johari halfway whispered. She was very near behind me; her hand touched the right pauldron on my armor.

"No idea."

"It's not some Earth animal? A wolf perhaps?" she asked hopefully.

"Well, I've never lived in Canada, but I don't think so…"

We waited in silence for a few moments. I was not sure what to do. Had it come from behind us? I was certain that it had. But what the hell was it? And did it know we were here? Suddenly another trilling screech rose up from the darkness to our rear. This time, however, it was much closer. I panicked the sound penetrated deep into my skull and frightened me. I choked back an urge to vomit. I could not let fear overtake me, not here, not amidst the unknown. Not when I had to protect this young asari. Still, I didn't know what to do.

"We have to move," I told Johari, trying to stifle any sound of terror in my voice. It was the only option that made sense to me. I gazed back behind us and fixed my eyes on the clearing we had just passed. There were figures moving! Dark silhouettes meandered across the open terrain, but though they appeared human in form they moved in such a way as to suggest something monstrous. They shambled forward clumsily… there were dozens of them. As they grew closer each figure became more apparent and a strange blue glow emanated from their bodies. If I looked hard enough I could swear I saw vacant, glowing blue eyes searching through the trees.

"What… what are they?" Johari stammered. Terror gripped her throat tightly.

"Run! We have to move, let's go," I insisted. I pulled her too her feet and pushed her before me. We sprinted off into the darkness. I made sure to keep her in the lead and occasionally turned around to check behind us. They moved faster then—they sprinted after us! "They know we're here. Go!"

We tore through brush and brambles, leapt over rocks and trudged through the shallow water of the creek as it meandered into our path. My lungs burned and my heart pounded in my ear drums. I could hear the creatures howling in the night behind us. These were no wolves, but something far more sinister. I looked back once more; they had gained ground on us. They leapt up into the trees and jumped from branch to branch suddenly moving with inhuman agility and speed.

I brought my weapon up and fired several shots at one that jumped from one limb to another. My rounds caught it in the chest and it tumbled into the ground below. I fired another trio of rounds that throttled another, but they were everywhere. Johari gained some distance from me… good. _Let her escape_. I turned and ran on after her and I could hear the dismal groans of those chasing me.

We pushed on. The muscles in my calves and quads seared from exertion yet the adrenaline rush fueled me to new heights. I fought through the ache in my muscles and pushed, harder and harder as time wore on, but their pursuit was relentless and they would not tire. "I can't… I can't…" Johari muttered, slowing down. In another hundred meters she stopped completely, entirely floored. "I can't do it." Her lungs raced and her blue skin shone with perspiration in the dim moonlight.

I stopped and gazed at her, my chest heaved up and down as my lungs attempted to recuperate. I looked back deep into the woods. "I'm so sorry," she sounded on the verge of tears.

I wanted to run, I wanted to keep going even if meant leaving her, but I knew I could never live with myself. My eyes tried to focus on the dark woods behind us. I could hear them coming, I could hear their dull moans and the sound of their advance as they closed the distance on us. "Keep going as fast as you can. Walk if you must, but you have to move," I urged her on. I turned back to face our harassers. "I'll do what I can to delay them."

"You can't!"

"Try and reach the rest of the team. It's not much further to the rally point," I attempted to reassure her. But my navigation was scrambled; I had gotten turned around in my desperation to escape. I had no clue how far away the rally point was now, or if we were even heading in the right direction. _Good job keeping a level head_, I thought. It didn't matter now, anyway. "Go!" I shouted and sprinted off toward the oncoming sounds of our pursuers.

I didn't look back, I only hoped she would keep moving and with any luck—escape.


	9. Chapter 9

**NINE**

I ran like a man possessed; not because I thought I could win this fight, but because I thought my senses would return and I would abandon Johari. I hastened forward towards death, better that than a weakening of my resolve. Rushing forward was a foolish notion, I wouldn't survive this, I couldn't possibly live against such odds but there were no options left and for some stubborn reason I felt responsible for that asari's life.

I could see the onrush of creatures scrambling toward me. Their groans echoed high into the evening sky. As their momentum carried them forward each one seemed to reach for me pleadingly as if tearing me to pieces could somehow ease their torment.

I started to pick targets and fired a steady, methodic stream of rounds into one after another. Still the torrent of creatures came and still the sounds of their moans echoed in the night. I fired off a concussive shot that shattered two of the monsters with its force. The sound of cracking tree branches drew my eyes high and to the right and I saw, with barely enough time, two more of the humanoid creatures sailing down from the canopy above me. My first three rounds struck one of the figures in the skull which evaporated from the kinetic force. The second creature crashed into me, sending me reeling into the ground. I scrambled to my feet as the shrieking thing scrambled toward me, at first on all fours, then in a disheveled mess on two legs. The flash-forged silicon-carbide omni-blade ratcheted outward from my forearm, I cried out and drove the blade into the chest cavity of the oncoming attacker. It let out a wail and the sound of air leaving a sealed room rose from its form as it went limp on the blade; I could see the orange glow of the weapon protruding through its back and beyond it the scene of more enemies. I tossed the creature aside and the omni-blade dissolved from lack of use, though I'm sure I'd need it soon enough.

Fear scraped at every fiber of my being like ravenous talons. At first it was necessary to choke it back with great effort, but as the situation developed it diminished at an alarming rate. The adrenaline rush was upon me and I could feel the adrenal gland pumping epinephrine into my system. Time seemed to slow around me as I drew my weapon to my shoulder and took well aimed shots. I lined up headshots and eviscerated skulls, fired deadly bursts into center mass shredding every target. I could see them reacting almost in slow motion as my incendiary ammunition tore into their gray flesh. Often the initial round or two would not catch, but after a third and fourth many of the ghouls were awash amidst flames ignited from my specialized ammunition. They would quickly succumb to the searing hot temperatures and drop dead amongst the foliage until the flames eventually burned them to dust; occasionally one would run for a few meters before giving in to the flame.

I must have killed over a dozen, yet still they came at me with a morbid desire to rend flesh from bone. The closer they got the more I realized that would not be difficult. What were once fingers had been transformed into malign digits that were sharpened like talons intended to pry into ablative armor.

I lobbed fragmentation grenades into clusters of them as they came at me and watched their body parts scatter from the resulting blasts and when they were upon me I unleashed the furious power of my M-27 Scimitar shotgun. The power and spread of the ammo tore through one after another. I stumbled backward as the mob of foes continued to press toward me, all the while firing with a robotic efficiency, rarely ever missing my mark. I watched them tumble and die like mindless beasts, even as a poorly aimed round blew away a leg they still crawled toward me reaching out with desperation in their actions like some fictional zombie from extranet vids. I was alerted to expended thermal clips by the urgent beeping tone that emanated from the Scimitar. I fired a concussive shot once again into a trio of creatures closest to me to buy some time. They sprawled backward from the blast and I collapsed the shotgun back down and switched back to my assault rifle which I began firing in a practiced, accurate manner.

They closed in all around me and suddenly the world beyond them was blackened out by the gray flesh illuminated with peculiar blue lights. Their groaning became a terrible roar in my ear drums as they flooded toward me, their mouths agape and casting out that strange blue glow that matched their dead eyes. I swung my assault rifle like a bat, its thermal clips now gone, striking an attacker in the jaw. I swung again and hit another across the temple and watched only for a moment as it careened into the uneven ground below. Another crashed into me from behind sending me reeling into a group of them. Their moans grew in excitement, I was within their grasp. I could feel them tugging at my limbs and trying to tear the armor plates off my body. My kinetic barriers would not protect me against them. I struggled against their onslaught, desperate against the press of their attacks. I swung again with the rifle, but they were too close and I could not get enough leverage for a strong swing. I cast the Mattock aside and saw the orange light of my omni-tool reflect faintly off their dead flesh. Like a mad man I swung over and over again, each time my blade found a mark and the aberrant whimpers of my attackers signified a successful strike. But they came with an undeterred motivation to pry me from the protection my armor provided. I could still feel their grotesque fingers trying to force their way into every crease of my armor. Others scratched and scraped at the ablative ceramic surface. And they died; they died in droves as I had a seemingly endless fuel of energy that allowed me to savage scores of them with the ultra-sharp, super-heated serrated edge of my omni-blade.

I scrambled backward trying to gain some breathing room, only to have my legs wrapped up by one of them that was still alive but unable to stand. I fell backward into a tree trunk and blasted the beast's groaning face over and over again with a hammer fist while simultaneously slashing at the others like an animal with my blade. I could feel the strength giving way. My muscles ached from overuse and I could tell every blow landed was weaker than the one before it. Finally it relinquished its grasp and I spun free from the tree trunk, drew my M-5 Phalanx heavy pistol and fired again and again. I felt the shock of each heavy round reverberate up my fatigued arm, but each round downed another enemy.

With pistol and blade in hand I continued the hopeless fight, I struck at those that got close with the blade and then turned the pistol on those who hadn't yet come within the radius of my deadly blade's arc. More bodies seemed to be stacked around me than I ever thought imaginable. When one of the beasties surprised me and leapt upon me with the ferocity I'd come to expect I kept its moaning head away with a well-placed forearm on its chest as his hands and feet scrabbled at my body. I put the barrel of the Phalanx against its chin and pulled the trigger and watched as the vacant face exploded into a pulpy gray mess that splashed against my helmet. I let the limp body go and continued to fend off the attack.

As with the other weapons I soon ran out of thermal clips for the Phalanx hand cannon and was back to using my blade. I threw my final grenade and watched a pair of monsters get incinerated by the explosion.

Tired and on my last leg I held one of by the throat against a tree and drove my omni-blade into its stomach and chest again and again. It reeled, struggling to break free of my vice like grip. I stabbed and stabbed at it, suddenly realizing that I was screaming at the top of my lungs. After a time I noticed the beastie had long since gone limp, dead from my vicious assault. I released my grip and it crumpled into a mess at the base of the tree.

I expected to be taken down from another onslaught at my back, but that all too familiar feeling of their forceful attempts to get into my suit was gone. I turned around to survey the battlefield and locate any threats. There were none. All across the landscape I managed to traverse in my death defying battle against these beasties nothing remained standing. Only their dead, lifeless forms lay across the terrain in my wake. I had won. Somehow I had survived.

And with that victory the adrenaline seemed to vanish from my system. I felt suddenly exhausted, my lids were heavy with a desire for slumber and my hands and legs trembled from overuse. I dropped to my knees, my eyes still fixated on the landscape where a now perverse serenity seemed to descend. I was still trying to catch my breath as I began to formulate a plan in my head of what to do next. I was alive, sure, but I was in hostile territory without any spare thermal clips and I was exhausted to the point of collapsing. I needed to reunite with my team and I needed to do it quickly…

Already Earth appeared to be more horrifying than I could have imagined. Yet I still lived and that was something at least. Wasn't it?

The sun rose undeterred by the chaos of the reaper invasion, but I wasn't basked in its warm glow. Enough smoke from nearby Vancouver, still in flames from the initial reaper attack, choked the sky and mingled with gloomy clouds overhead. The forest was awash in sullen tones and ash from the burning city rained down like flakes of snow, creating a solemn atmosphere of defeat. This war had just started, yet even moving amongst the trees that were void of any life seemed to be a pointless exercise in human stubbornness. My thoughts traveled back to the frightening display of enemies I had encountered the night before. They were not human, at least not in a traditional sense, but they were human once. I had heard rumors of geth technology changing living, breathing people into husks of their former selves. I wondered if that had been what I saw the previous night. Either way, the thought of more of those things out in this forest sent a chill down my spine. I still had my Scimitar shotgun and Phalanx heavy pistol, but without thermal clips they were just blunt objects no more useful to me than large rocks. I wasn't sure if I had the strength or energy to fight off another wave with my omni-blade either.

I had been moving for hours and upon reaching the rally point I found it deserted. My team was not there, but that wasn't surprising. Doubtless they'd have waited for a while before moving on without me. The mission would come first, I was sure. I had only hoped that Johari had made it as well. I'd seen no sign of her anywhere after my fight with the husks and she had no accurate way of navigating her way through the forest. The thought of those husks catching up to her… I shook my head and attempted to banish the thoughts.

I had no further intelligence to go on; the location of any resistance bases was not broadcast to us for fear of intercept by reaper technology which was mostly a mystery to us. Gunny Tarkov had a rough idea, but he had only told us we'd move south after we had consolidated at the rally point. So that's where I was headed now; walking south aimlessly and hoping I wouldn't run up against anything else the reapers had concocted. If they had made husks out of human beings what other horrors could they have designed? I didn't want to find out, but that threat was forever looming in my mind.

I rested periodically, but each stop was short. If anything was tracking me I wanted to stay well ahead of it and even took precautions like crossing streams then backtracking in order to try and throw anything off my trail. I really had no idea if anything was after me, or if my tactics were effective. It was primal; everything I did was simply an example of falling back on my training. This was escape and evasion now; I was in hostile territory with barely a thing to protect myself. Remaining elusive and utilizing such techniques was my best protection now.

As night began to set in once again I began to search out a place for some respite where I could hide away from what may lurk in the night. I had seen nothing at all during the daytime which made me think that the husks might have been nocturnal hunters. For some reason such an idea spooked me even more, though I doubted it were the case. Such a thing might be scary, but it was terribly inefficient. Still, I needed a place that would allow for escape should my position be compromised but also offered some protection and concealment. A small rocky outcropping that ran off west of the creek I had been crossing back and forth periodically offered something akin to what I needed. There was sparse vegetation and some trees that sprouted from between the rocks here and there, increasing my concealment. I struggled up one of the more sheer rock faces and found a crevice carved out of the face large enough for me to squeeze into. It was a tight fit. If I did get any sleep I wouldn't be rolling over on my side. I lay there staring up at the granite surface mere centimeters above my faceplate. In my exhausted state it didn't take long for slumber to find me and before I knew it had dosed off.


	10. Chapter 10

**TEN**

I woke suddenly having no knowledge of how long I'd been out, though it was still night out. I realized the suddenness of my waking was attributed by the sound of gunfire. It was significant enough to sound like a small battle as I could hear the staccato of multiple weapon systems. The distinctive sound of the M-76 Revenant belching out a steady stream of rounds echoed over everything. I began to shimmy my way out of the small crevice that had acted as my bed and tried to climb down the craggy rock face. My footing was unsure and my grip slipped and I fell, tumbling down the side of the small face and onto some rocks below. The drop was enough to send a stab of pain into my body, but I didn't have time to be troubled by it. I rose to my feet, my muscles and limbs ached from disuse. Sleeping in that crevice hadn't done much to help me recover from my arduous fight and subsequent journey the day before.

The night air was cool and the moss covered rocks around me were bathed in milky white moonlight. I carefully picked my way through them and trudged back across the small creek which led to a substantial climb up a steep hill. I could already feel myself wheezing. I felt naked and useless without a weapon and hoped that I would not need one. It was a silly notion for someone to have as they ran towards a gunfight.

A mass accelerator roared over the scattered small arms fire and I realized that whoever was involved in the conflict ahead was packing some serious firepower. I began moving with as much haste as I could muster, beckoned to the fray by the sound of gunshots. I could only hope it was Alliance forces and that meeting up with them would deliver me to some level of safety.

The sounds got louder as I pressed my way up a gradual incline, leaping over small rocks and dodging past mighty pine trees. Again the heavy sound of some vehicle mounted weapon resounded through the forest. As I reached the summit of the incline I began to see further away the distinctive muzzle flashes of an array of weapons. There was definitely a fight going on at least five hundred meters away, but who was involved? I needed to get closer and find out if those firing the weapons were in fact allies.

I moved on, but slower now as I deftly maneuvered myself through the foliage and rough terrain. Importance now lay on stealth. Approaching a battle without any weapon to defend yourself with could end in a quick death and that would be tragic after what I had survived since landing on Earth. Still, I wanted to arrive before the show was over and had to balance speed with caution.

Small explosions began to ripple across a distant tree line followed by the continuous low thud of what I assumed was an M-100 grenade launcher. As I got closer to the action I began feeling better about the situation; I could make out the different sounds of each weapon being fired and the more gunfire I heard the more I felt confident I was moving toward Alliance units.

The dark forest was aglow from gunfire; tracers streaked through the air seeking out targets and as I drew closer I saw the familiar outline of the M-35 Mako. I sprinted for it. The sound of my own heartbeat competed with that of the roiling salvos around me. To my relief I saw two figures clad in Alliance armor. Both of them were firing into the forest and took little notice of me.

"What outfit are you with?" I asked, but they couldn't hear me over the din of their own weapons. "Hey!"

One stopped firing and looked over at me. Despite the helmet I could tell it was a woman due the construction of her armor and the feminine brown eyes that peered at me through the visor. "Who the hell are you?" she asked suspiciously.

"Sergeant Wiley," I responded, like it made any difference.

"Who are you with?"

"Delta."

She didn't seem to buy it. "What are you doing out here?" She grabbed me by the arm and drew me away from her partner who was still firing at some threat further afield. We hunkered down next to the Mako which fired rounds every so often. The audio dampeners helped stem the overwhelming boom of each shot from the 155mm cannon.

"I dropped in last night with the rest of my team but we got separated. I ran into some gray zombies with glowing blue eyes and had to E and E out of the area. My team wasn't at the RV point so now I don't know where the hell I'm headed," I admitted.

"Dropped in? From where?"

I pointed to the stars overhead. "There."

She gazed up in the direction my finger was pointing then her eyes returned to meet my own stare. She looked doubtful. Who could blame her, by the looks of her armor she was a regular; and what we did in the Special Operations community was unknown to them. "All right we don't have time for this," she began. "We're trying to cover the evacuation of some civvies fleeing from Chilliwack." I looked at her, perplexed. Chilliwack? I thought I was back on Earth. What a strange name.

"Berman it's time to move!" Another Alliance Marine materialized from the front side of the Mako. Tracer fire arced through the sky in the distance behind him. It was clear this unit was embroiled in a sizable fight with reaper forces. "Who the hell is this?" The man stopped his hurried movement when he noticed me.

"He says he is with Delta," the girl named Berman responded. "He just wandered up."

"Think he's indoctrinated?"

"How should I know?"

"Well you're talking to him. What do you think?"

"He said he dropped in from outer space; so whatever he is he's definitely crazy," she said, shaking her head.

I didn't have the slightest idea what they were talking about. "Look, I don't know what indoctrinated is but I can assure you that I'm not that or it… or whatever."

The male Marine regarded me with suspicion. "We'll deal with it later; we need to get out of here. We're withdrawing. The civilians are far enough out and Anderson gave us the go ahead. It's time to load up."

Berman nodded and the male jogged away. "All right, just stay with me I guess." She didn't seem to know what to do with me. Her suggestion seemed like my best bet for survival since I was still unarmed. "Let's go."

She led me to the back of the Mako which was still plugging rounds into the depths of the forest out of sight. I could hear the echo of each blast as they struck their mark. She peeked her head out from behind the cover the Mako provided and fired a few rounds from her M-8 Avenger. "All right, get ready to move," she told me, looking back. She bounded forward out of cover and I saw a stream of rounds streak past her. I didn't hesitate; I was far too accustomed to gunfire to flinch now. I sprinted after her. The weight of my equipment vanished as the adrenaline rush began. Mass accelerated shards ripped through the air around us, they sizzled the atmosphere as they sped by.

I loved being shot at. I hated being shot at. It was this duality that confused civilians. I was an adrenaline addict hooked on war. I was terrified as much as I was enthralled by the gunfight I was engulfed in. I saw Marines firing into an unseen enemy deep in the forest; their own gunfire answered only by belches of fire from the reaper forces. Rockets soared by my head, leaving a contrail of smoke in their wake as they arced into enemy positions and exploded in a fantastic display of power. Trees creaked from the force of each blast and they showered the area with splinters. I could hear grotesque howls from the woods; some were familiar but others were foreign but equally disturbing.

I felt the shift in overpressure as the shockwave from an explosion behind me shoved me just so. I turned back to see the Mako that we had sheltered behind in flames. People had been inside it just moments ago and now they were dead. The frightening finality of combat returned to me and I regretted enjoying the thrill only minutes before their fiery deaths.

Berman ran like a demon. She ducked and dodged beneath low hanging branches and scrambled over rocks and past boulders. I kept pace with her, but I could feel my lungs begin to burn and the muscles in my legs strain. Up ahead I saw an assortment of different vehicles and Marines streaming toward them. There were several M29 Grizzlies and a few more Makos as well. There was even an M-44 Hammerhead hovering a few meters above the ground strafing back and forth firing heavy rounds into the trees behind us. Sand and pebbles were sprayed in every direction from the distortion fields the Hammerhead used to keep it hovering.

The Marines were loading up in the various vehicles and Berman beckoned me over to a battle scarred Mako with the title "Reaper Sweeper" unceremoniously hand-painted on the side. Have to love Marines and their sense of humor. "Let's go!" she yelled out unnecessarily. We jammed our way into the crowded interior of the Mako.

"Who the fuck is that?" one of the Marines demanded.

"Some dude from Delta," Berman stated in an exasperated tone. It was obvious she was tired of answering for me. "Where is Landon?"

"Didn't make it. Husks got him," one of the others said.

"Fuck," Berman mumbled. She looked down and shook her head. I sat awkwardly beside her, my legs folded up into my chest. I was anxious to get away from the fight now. The fact that I had no weapon had sunk in and I had lost the appetite for a fight.

The door sealed beside me and I felt the Mako begin to jostle and shake as it rolled forward. We could hear the gun's muffled thud as it fired its shot at our enemy. I just hoped it would get me out in one piece. Vehicles were a big target and as a result were usually popular to blow up.

I could feel the heavy duty tires screeching down what felt like a paved road, it was far less bumpy than the ride out of the territory where I had boarded the Mako. "Where are we going?" I half-yelled at Berman. Despite being packed tightly in the Mako it was loud inside and we could hardly hear one another unless we shouted.

"We're using the old Trans-Canada highway heading for the town of Hope," she shouted back. The name seemed theatrical at that point. "It's where most of our regiment retreated to after the fall of Vancouver."

So the Alliance forces on Earth hadn't completely crumbled then. That was good at least. In fact, the organized fighting I had seen so far surprised me. The picture that had been painted to us on the Normandy was very grim, but by the sounds of it the Alliance had only withdrew from Vancouver and set up a new frontline base to conduct operations. Or perhaps I was oversimplifying things for the sake of my own desires. The idea of fighting a bleak, desperate fight simply to delay the inevitability of human extinction on Earth was not at all appealing. Better to be a part of a coherent force in a valiant struggle against a superior force. Losing perhaps, but far from extinction.

My thoughts of the war were jarred from my brain from the immense concussion of some internal blast. I heard the shrieks of some of the Marines but my vision was immediately clouded by thick smoke. I choked and wheezed from the stuff and felt around the cramped interior. My fingers touched a hand then crept up a wrist to an arm. It had to be Berman; she was seated next to me. I heaved my weight nearer to her form and my eyes attempted to identify her condition in the haze. She was unconscious. A quick glance beside her confirmed the other Marines were dead—practically liquidated by whatever had hit the Mako. There was a glow amidst the pall and I realized the Mako was on fire. I had to get out.

I grasped Berman's Avenger assault rifle and tossed it out the damaged hatch, which was more difficult to pry open than I would have liked. The hydraulics were froggy and not working properly. Smoke was pouring out of the rear exhaust compartment of the Mako making it difficult to see what was waiting for me outside, but my most pressing concern was escaping the fire inside the vehicle's cabin. I dragged Berman as gently as I could, wary of any injuries she may have sustained. She kept getting caught on objects inside the Mako and I had to yank forcefully on her. I may have been causing more bodily damage, but it didn't matter. If we didn't get away from that fire she'd be dead.

We fell in a heap on the asphalt of the Trans-Canada highway Berman had been telling me about only moments ago. I could hear gunshots around me and peered up at Marines who had dismounted other vehicles. They were firing into the woods nearby, apparently trying to counter an ambush that had struck our vehicle. They were already cordoning off the devastated Mako. A fire team rushed over to us with a stretcher. I pointed at Berman's seemingly lifeless body amidst torrents of coughing.

I looked down to see blood seeping from beneath my armor's shoulder pauldron. I wasn't sure how bad it was, but at the moment my left arm felt mostly numb. I supposed that was the adrenaline. It was always there to help me in a pinch. I dragged my ragged body to my feet and picked up the Avenger lying idle on the pavement. A Marine was approaching me and asked: "Are you doing okay, sir?" Funny—I was a sir to him. He didn't know me or my rank. Oh well.

There were two other figures approaching beside him, hard to identify in the billowing smoke. "Crack on, mate," I blundered with asinine bravado, insinuating I was waiting for orders to assault the enemy—wherever they were. But my body wasn't on the same page as my ego. I felt dizzy, lightheaded and weak. I stumbled forward when I attempted to heft the lightweight rifle up to my shoulder. I was caught by a burly looking officer who seemed to handle the weight of my weakened body with little trouble. My eyes locked onto the rank on his collar and I thought I was imaging things. I could have sworn he was an Admiral. My eyes focused on his aged face, but his dark features were hard to make out in the haze. His voice was filled with concern but his tone was officious. "Stand down, Marine."


End file.
